5 minutes. I need to finish this fight in 5 minutes or else my grandfather will skin me alive for being late in that fucking dinner. The air is thick with sweat, blood, and the metallic tang of adrenaline. The crowd roars around me, loud, chants of my name, a blur of hungry faces pressed up against the cage, their shouts bouncing off the grimy concrete walls. My opponent paces like a caged beast, a towering wall of muscle with scars that tell stories of fights past. But none of it matters. I only need five minutes.

The bell clangs.

The first punch comes fast-a straight jab aiming for my jaw. I evaded, feeling the wind as it sails past, and counters with a brutal hook to the ribs. The impact is solid, but the bastard barely flinches.

Good.

My opponent-whose name I didn't fucking even bother to know, surges forward, aiming to take me to the ground. I twisted, shoving him off, but the brute was adamant to take me down. A knee slams into my side, rattling my ribs. Sharp pain. I gritted my teeth. No time to dwell on it. I shifted my weight, feet steady, and lands a vicious uppercut. Crunch. A spray of blood from the asshole's mouth, but he still doesn't drop.

Two minutes gone.

The crowd was chanting, their voices louder, almost shouting. Their voices blur into a single, deafening hum. I can feel the tension thickening in the air. I've been to enough of these fights to know when someone's getting desperate. The guy is pissed now, reckless, throwing heavy punches meant to crush, but they're sloppy.

Predictable.

I dodged left. Right. Weaves under a wild swing and punishes the mistake—an elbow to the temple, a jab to the throat. The brute staggers, gasping, eyes wide with shock.

Three minutes.

I could end it now. I should. But my blood is up, heart pounding in my ears, veins asking from bloodlust. This fight isn't just for the crowd. It's for me and the demon living inside me. The need to dominate, to remind myself who the hell I am. The guy tries to recover, swinging a desperate, clumsy right hook. Big mistake. I caught the arm mid-swing, twists sharply-bone cracks. A howl of pain. I didn't hesitate. A brutal knee to the ribs, then a final, crushing strike—a hammering blow to the jaw. The demon in me was happy, but still wanted more blood. The opponent crumpled. Out cold.

Five minutes, exactly.

The ref barely has time to declare me the winner before I'm already stepping away, rolling the tension from my shoulders. I had to go, aside from the fucking dinner, if the demon takes over, I don't know if I could stop it. Someone handed me a towel. My knuckles are split, nothing new, blood—his or the guy's, doesn't matter—dripping onto the floor. My phone buzzed.

Dinner.

I exhaled, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. Time to shift gears. I wiped the blood from my knuckles. By the time I sit down across from these people—the Kensington's, no one will know I just broke a man in a cage. I took a quick shower, trying to remove blood, sweat and brutality away from my skin, my knuckles sting as water touched my knuckles. Luca, my secretary and right hand man, came with a tablet on his hand.

"Your grandfather is expecting you, Atlas." He said I got dressed, my black tailored suit fits like a second skin, crisp and calculated, every detail intentional.  The rich brown tie softens the severity, but only slightly—it's a subtle nod to elegance over intimidation. Polished leather shoes echo against the floor as I moved, my presence sharp yet effortless. I adjusts my cuff, a fleeting gesture, but one that speaks volumes—control, precision, power.

"How do I look?" I asked Luca, arms opened. He gave me an approving smile.

"As if you didn't just knocked out a full grown man ten minutes ago."

I grabbed my gym bag, gave it to Luca as we exited The Iron Pit—A brutal underground fighting arena known for its no-rules, high-stakes matches. Blood stains the floor, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline. Only the strongest walk out victorious; the rest are left broken. Yes I do manage the family's business but in my spare time where I could feel the demon trying claw it's way out of my skin, I just go here, break one or many bones and I can keep him under control. I could hear my name being chanted in the arena—Titan as they call me, as I exited the area, now turned into muffled cheers and went inside the car.

I looked at the time and we're actually on time, a few minutes early. My knuckles started to feel sore, a dull pain humming in my veins but I didn't mind it, though my issue of how visibly split and red it was concerns me a bit but I don't have the time improvise. I don't even care if they notice it, I could just say I'm fixing a shelf. If they press anymore further, I'll be more than happy to direct them to the shelf.

We entered a gated mansion, it loomed ahead, a monument to old money and power. Built generations ago, it stood untouched by time—grand, imposing, and filled with history. As I stepped out of the car, the weight of legacy hung in the air.

Tonight wasn't just dinner.

It was a meeting of worlds.

Luca opened my door and we were greeted by man in his late fifties, wearing an all black ensemble, as we ascended the steps.

"Mr. Atlas King, I presume?" he said. I nodded.

"Reginald, at your service." He made a bow and opened the door for us to come in. Inside, the marble floors echoed with the weight of history—deals struck, secrets buried, and laughter long gone. The grand staircase loomed ahead, its railing smoothed by time. Portraits lined the walls, their gazes heavy with expectation—a legacy I never asked for but carried all the same. I made a disapproving look as the man called Reginald looked the lined portraits and back to me.

"Anything you wish to know, sir?" I pointed to the portraits. I already knew that they were the previous Kensingtons that resided in this mansion but small talk doesn't hurt. Reginald looked a bit surprised at my interest—feigned but he doesn't need to know that. He did confirm my suspicion and tried to listen as if I was really interested. As soon as he was done, I spoke, cutting the charade and not letting it go on as it should have been.

"Is my grandfather here?" I asked. He nodded curtly.

"He arrived shortly before you did, this way." Luca and I followed Reginald through an archway and to a large dining hall. My grandfather already seated next to, I'm assuming the head of the house, having idle chat. I know my grandfather's feelings towards Henry Kensington. Mutual respect. Cut from the same cloth of ruthlessness. Different methodologies, but albeit, the same cloth.

Henry Kensington stood with an air of quiet authority, his sharp green eyes assessing every detail with practiced calculation. Age had not softened him—if anything, the years had only honed the edges. His presence was commanding, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.

There was no warmth in his gaze, only the cold precision of a man who had built and preserved an empire with ruthless efficiency. A woman, of the same age sat on the other side, assuming that is his wife. My grandfather did the same as I went directly towards him and gave a small bow.

"Henry, this is my grandson, Atlas." He held out his hand and I took it. His grip was firm, asserting his domineering presence. Good thing he used the opposite hand of my unbruised one.

"Pleasure to meet you, Atlas and this is my endearing wife, Seraphina." She motioned to the elegant woman dressed in a champaign colored dress that draped her body like liquid gold, short hair styled to perfection.

"Just call me Seraphine," I shook her delicate hand, soft like satin.

"Pleasure is mine." I said to both of them. We all sat back and dinner was being served. The dinner was nothing short of elegant, a quiet display of wealth and refinement. A starter of beef carpaccio, delicate and rich, paired with a crisp white wine. I looked at the empty chair next to Seraphine. Untouched plate and utensils, I'm assuming that's where her twin brother would sit, or did he also run away? I rolled my eyes internally, who would refuse the protection of our family?

I introduced Luca to the Kensingtons and was greeted with warm welcome—Seraphine did but I don't even expect Henry to show any warmth to anyone in this room apart from his wife. Henry called Reginald and whispered something in his ear and was about to leave when he stopped on his tracks, speaking with someone over the entrance.

I couldn't see who it was until Reginald stepped aside and the moment i saw him, the world around me stilled. For six months, his face had been a memory—something I had convinced himself was better left in the past. But here he was, making his way to his seat, eyes wide as saucers, thunderstruck as I was, real and undeniable. A jolt of shock shot through me, settling deep in my chest like a punch I hadn't braced for. The man who had seen me that night in Switzerland, bleeding to death in an alley in the dead of winter.