Prince didn't sleep that night. His mind replayed every detail the photograph, the Trackhawk, the note, the burned Hellcat. Shadow Hall had moved, and they'd made their first strike tangible. The city was no longer just London; it had become a cage with invisible bars.
Morning arrived gray and heavy. Prince sat on the edge of his bed, gloves in hand, staring at the leather like it could answer questions. His knuckles itched. Not from training, but anticipation. He needed the ring. Needed the gym. Needed the rhythm of controlled violence to balance the chaos threatening to pull him apart.
He jogged through the streets, boots slapping the pavement, breath forming clouds in the crisp air. Every step was deliberate. Eyes scanned reflections, doorways, parked cars. By the time he reached Soho Boxing Club, his body hummed with focus, his mind sharp with the edge of danger.
Inside, the smell of leather and sweat hit him. The ring was empty, waiting. Prince climbed in, bouncing lightly, letting the canvas beneath his feet remind him of what was real what was under his control. Not Shadow Hall. Not Ruiz's camp. Not the ghosts creeping along his life. Only him. Only the fight.
Morgan appeared from the back room, coffee in hand, face unreadable. "Looks like someone's trying to get under your skin," he said.
"They've succeeded," Prince admitted, "but I'm still standing."
Morgan's eyes softened slightly. "Good. Then let's make sure you stay standing in the ring too. Ruiz isn't going to wait while shadows play their games."
Prince wrapped his hands, methodical, each movement grounding him. He shadowboxed, the sound of gloves cutting the air sharp, crisp. Every pivot, every jab, every hook a declaration. Sweat began to coat his skin, but Prince didn't notice. The rhythm in his limbs drowned out the anxiety outside the gym's walls.
Rounds passed. Morgan's mitts rose and fell with precision, guiding, correcting, testing. Prince's breathing synced with each strike, each dodge, each shuffle. Every punch hit the pads like a bell announcing defiance. Shadow Hall could burn cars, stalk streets, threaten mothers, but here, in the ring, Prince controlled the battlefield.
After a long session, Prince sat on the ropes, chest heaving. "They're getting bolder," he said.
Morgan shook his head. "And you're letting them define your day. You need to define the fight. On your terms."
Prince nodded. He let his gaze drift to the empty canvas, imagining Ruiz across the ring, the bell ringing, the crowd roaring. That was the real fight. The one that mattered. Everything else the threats, the smoke, the letters was a distraction. A test. A prelude.
Hours later, Prince and Reece met at the garage. Reece had scanned the city, traced the notes, interviewed locals, and run plate numbers. Shadow Hall's influence ran like veins underground, touching streets, buildings, businesses, even gyms. It was sprawling, patient, and dangerous.
Prince studied a map spread across the hood of the Hellcat, finger tracing alleyways and streets. "They're organized," he said. "More than just thugs. This isn't random."
Reece nodded. "They want control. They see you as a symbol. Ruiz, your fights, your rise they want to contain it, manipulate it, or destroy it."
Prince leaned back, fists clenched. "Then we make them fight on my terms. I don't run. I box. I fight. In the ring, or out of it, I set the rules."
Reece gave a slow, approving nod. "You always did have fire."
Prince stood, determination radiating. "Then we'll track them, pin them down, and make sure they know Prince doesn't get pushed around."
That evening, Prince returned to the gym. Lights were dimmed, the city outside dark and quiet. He ran through footwork drills alone, the sound of shoes against canvas echoing. Every pivot, every shuffle, every jab was a meditation in focus.
Shadow Hall could strike anywhere, anytime, but in the ring, Prince controlled reality. He imagined Ruiz across the ropes, felt the bell vibrate in his chest, heard the crowd screaming. This was what he fought for the clarity of the ring, the purity of a contest defined by skill, speed, and will.
Morgan approached, voice low. "We'll get the fight with Ruiz back on track. Don't let these shadows distract you."
Prince shook his head. "They're distractions only if I let them be. The ring is mine."
Hours of bag work followed, fists smashing into leather with precision, power, and intent. Prince's sweat glazed the pads, his breathing steady, his mind focused. Every strike was a promise: to himself, to the boy who left home with nothing but dreams, and to the city that would watch him rise.
By nightfall, he was exhausted. Muscles trembled. Every fiber ached. But he felt alive in a way only a fighter could because danger outside the gym had sharpened his instincts inside it.
Prince walked home through the streets with Reece. Both men moved cautiously, eyes scanning shadows, listening for anything out of rhythm. The city felt alive and sinister all at once, as if it were a living entity waiting to see who would blink first.
Reece broke the silence. "You'll be in Riyadh next month," he said, "if everything goes to plan."
Prince's eyebrows shot up. "Riyadh?"
Morgan's voice came through a call. "Big fight. International stage. Ruiz wants it, promoters want exposure. You've got to be ready for the lights, the pressure. Nothing like London streets, Prince."
Prince felt a spark of anticipation. A real fight, not threats or shadows. The bell would ring. Only fists, only skill, only will. He was ready.
But Shadow Hall would follow him even there.
Prince's fingers brushed the straps on his bag. He didn't fear them not yet. But he respected them. They were part of the storm now. Part of the fight. Part of the challenge that would define his next chapter.
He clenched his fists in the pocket of his hoodie, muscles tight. The gym, the streets, the threats they all merged into one rhythm in his mind. A rhythm he would follow into the ring in Riyadh. Into the arenas in the US. Wherever Ruiz, wherever the fight, wherever Shadow Hall tried to reach him.
Prince didn't flinch. He didn't run. He boxed.
The city hummed beneath him. The night waited. And the storm hadn't even arrived yet.
Prince was ready.
The fight the real fight was just beginning.
to be continued...