Prince hit the streets before sunrise, hood up, shoulders hunched against the wind. London looked washed out and weary, the sky pale as bruised skin. Cars drifted by with their headlights low, mist curling around the tires. The world felt half-awake, half-watching.
He walked fast, cutting down side streets, checking reflections in windows, studying shadows that lingered too long. Last night's warnings hadn't shaken him, they'd sharpened him. If someone wanted him paranoid, they should've chosen someone weaker. Paranoia for Prince was fuel.
The Range Rover.
The letter.
The whisper about the "real fight."
None of it sat right.
He needed answers. Needed direction. And the only man who knew how to navigate London's undercurrents without drowning was Navarro.
Prince headed toward Brixton, pushing through pockets of early commuters and delivery cyclists. Vendors were just pulling up shutters, the smell of rising dough and frying oil drifting into the cold air. People moved around Prince without noticing him, but he watched everything hands, pockets, glances, the rhythm of the street.
He wasn't just looking for trouble.
He was looking for patterns.
He reached the café where Navarro liked to conduct his "meetings" a quiet spot with steamed-up windows and strong Turkish coffee. He stepped inside, heat brushing over his face, the smell of cardamom and roasted beans filling the air.
Navarro was already there.
He sat in a corner booth, suit immaculate, coat folded neatly beside him. Two phones on the table. No smile. Just eyes that missed nothing.
Prince slid into the seat opposite him.
"We talk now," Prince said. "No circles."
Navarro's gaze sharpened. "You walked here?"
"Yeah."
"No tail?"
"If I had one, they're smarter than the ones you warned me about."
Navarro tapped his fingers on the table. "Tell me."
Prince pulled the note from his pocket and placed it between them. Navarro didn't touch it. He just stared.
"Someone's giving warnings," Prince said. "And they're following me."
Navarro finally picked up the paper. His jaw clenched almost invisibly. "This isn't Ruiz's people."
"I know."
"And it's not me."
Prince leaned forward. "So who is it?"
Navarro hesitated a rare crack in his usual armor. "There's a group moving into London. Rich men. Old money. They run fights that never reach cameras. No rules. No press. No audience except those who pay enough to watch."
Prince's breath tightened. Underground fighting wasn't new, but this sounded deeper structured, organized, predatory.
"They've been scouting," Navarro said. "Looking for fighters who draw blood beautifully."
"And you think they want me."
"I know they do."
Prince let that settle. He'd spent years becoming a name in the legal world of boxing. He wasn't stepping into bloodsport for men who wore silk suits and hid behind offshore accounts.
"No," Prince said flatly. "I'm not theirs."
Navarro shook his head. "They don't take no. They buy. Threaten. Break. Whatever works."
Prince leaned back, arms crossing. "Then let them try."
Navarro exhaled slowly. "You're strong. But these men don't use gloves. They use leverage."
"Leverage only works if I care what they hold."
Navarro's expression stiffened. "You do."
Prince frowned.
Then Navarro pulled a small envelope from his coat. Inside was a photograph.
Prince's chest tightened before he even saw it.
His mother.
Standing outside their home.
Talking to a neighbor.
Unaware of a camera aimed at her.
Prince's hands curled into fists.
"Where did you get this?" His voice was low, steady, dangerous.
"This was sent to one of my associates yesterday. Same handwriting as your note."
Prince felt heat rising behind his ribs a slow, searing pressure. The kind of heat that ended careers and started wars.
"They're sending messages," Navarro said. "And they're escalating."
Prince stared at the picture until his vision narrowed. "What's their name?"
"They don't use one."
"Everyone uses one."
Navarro hesitated, then said, "Shadow Hall."
Prince blinked once. "That sounds like a cheap horror movie."
Navarro nodded grimly. "Except these men write the script."
Prince pocketed the photograph. "Then I'll rewrite it."
He stood, ready to leave, but Navarro grabbed his wrist.
"You don't hunt men like this," he said. "You survive them."
Prince pulled his hand free. "Not my style."
Navarro sighed. "Just be careful."
Prince walked out of the café with a new purpose and a new target.
He didn't go home.
He needed to understand how deep this ran, how close Shadow Hall had already gotten. He walked through Brixton, blending with foot traffic, studying faces, corners, parked cars. Paranoia sharpened his senses until every detail stood out.
He passed an alley and froze.
A man stood half-hidden behind a dumpster, phone raised, angled toward Prince's direction. The man wasn't homeless. Not a dealer. Not casual.
Prince moved.
He crossed the street quickly, stepped into the alley from the opposite end, and walked straight toward him.
The guy noticed too late. He lowered the phone, but Prince already saw the screen a photo of him from seconds ago.
"Delete it," Prince said.
The man swallowed. "I'm— I'm just..."
Prince stepped closer. "Delete it."
The man's hands shook as he hit the trash icon. Prince grabbed the phone, checked the gallery dozens of photos. All of Prince. Different days. Different angles.
"Who sent you?" Prince asked.
"Please, man, I'm paid to watch, that's it "
"By who?"
The man's eyes darted. "I don't know their names. They just call themselves "
"Shadow Hall," Prince finished for him.
The man's face drained.
Prince handed the phone back. "Walk away."
The man didn't hesitate. He ran.
Prince stepped out of the alley, pulse steady, mind burning. Shadow Hall didn't just know where he trained or lived they had him mapped like a battlefield.
He needed to strike before they did.
But he wasn't reckless. He knew that fighting shadows required light. Clarity. Intel. He needed someone who knew the streets deeper than Navarro. Someone who operated below the legal surface Navarro hovered above.
He needed Reece.
Reece lived above a garage that specialized in "fixing things" cars, problems, people. Prince climbed the metal stairs and knocked twice. Heavy footsteps approached before the door opened.
Reece filled the frame like a wall tall, broad, tattoos crawling up his neck. His beard was thick, his eyes alert. He'd been Prince's first sparring partner in England, long before either of them had real opportunities.
He stepped aside. "What happened?"
Prince walked in. The room smelled of engine oil and incense, a strange mix that somehow suited Reece. Tools lay everywhere, parts scattered across the table. A half-opened gearbox sat under a lamp like surgery in progress.
Prince tossed the photograph of his mother onto the table.
Reece's jaw tightened. "Who took this?"
"A group watching me."
Reece studied Prince's face. "You want help."
"I want eyes," Prince said. "On the streets. On whoever's watching my family."
Reece nodded slowly. "I'll find them."
Prince exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. "I appreciate..."
A thunderous boom shook the room.
Both men spun toward the window.
Smoke rose from the garage below.
Reece cursed and ran downstairs. Prince followed fast, adrenaline spiking. They burst into the garage as flames licked the side of a black Durango Hellcat Reece had been working on.
Prince grabbed a fire extinguisher, spraying down the burning hood while Reece hit the kill switches. The fire retreated, coughing out sparks before dying.
The front windshield was shattered.
Something lay on the driver's seat.
A small black card.
Prince opened the door and picked it up.
A single silver symbol was etched into it.
An eye.
Below it, two words:
STAY STILL.
Prince crushed the card in his fist.
"That them?" Reece asked.
Prince nodded once.
Reece's expression darkened. "Then this is war."
Prince didn't argue.
It already was.
And Shadow Hall had just made the first move.