Ryan was just sitting on the couch, gaze fixed on the door that had slowly begun to open with a small creak.

The air felt heavier than before, and the tension started to grow louder. His heartbeat increased, breathing became ragged, but slowly it got under control—just like the calm before the storm.

He slowly ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back roughly as he muttered under his breath. "Well, I guess it can't be helped now."

The man in the suit who was standing right in front of Ryan let out a small smile—that same fake grin which looked so professional. His voice came slowly yet politely. "What is it, VIP sire?" The man asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ryan's eyes shifted back towards him as he stood up from the couch, fixing his hoodie a bit. "Just drop the act already," he said quietly, eyes fixated on him. "I know that you already know I'm a fake."

The grin on the man's face faltered slightly, just for a brief second, before it returned to normal.

Ryan slowly cleaned the dust off his clothes, movements steady, almost deliberate. His voice was calm but filled with a pinch of irritation. "Your eyes..." he said, locking his eyes with the man. "Your eyes are cunning, they have that look in them—something which I despise the most."

Ryan slowly cracked his knuckles. "So, why don't we drop the act already? Let's stop pretending, yeah?" His voice came, cocky.

The man's grin widened quite a bit. He simply took one step forward, reducing the distance between him and Ryan. "Ah," he said softly, tilting his head a bit as he took his hand, kept it under his chin. "So, you're that kind of guest, hmm."

Ryan didn't answer him back; he simply took one step forward and slowly got into his stance—left foot forward, fists slightly raised upwards, body tilted a bit to the side. His breathing steadied, expression unreadable beneath the mask.

The man let out a small chuckle, straightened his tie a bit as he raised his own arms up. "Surely, dear sire," he said, tone filled with mockery. "Let's make this even more exciting..."

Ryan looked at the man as his voice came out low, firm. "Tell me your name before we start," he said, eyes staring the man in the eyes.

The man let out a small chuckle as he said, "I usually don't reveal my name when I'm at my job, but I should tell that to you because you'll soon be a dead man." He took a small pause before continuing again. "Victor Lang, my name is Victor Lang."

Ryan's face didn't change as he said, "Let's have a go at it then, Victor."

The moment his voice dropped, Ryan moved. He dashed forward—didn't waste even a second out there. The air whistled around Ryan's body. The first jab came through; it was fast, cutting through the small distance between him and Victor.

CRACK!

Victor barely had any time to block Ryan's swing; his arm caught Ryan's arm while it was mid-air, inches away from his jaw. The force of that punch still made him stagger back a bit.

A wide grin curled up on Victor's face as he twisted Ryan's wrist, pushing Ryan's arm aside from his body. "That was not bad at all, dear sire." His voice came low, smooth.

Ryan didn't reply,;he followed instantly with a cross—it didn't hit Victor completely ,but grazed his shoulder a bit. Victor ducked and countered with a sharp roundhouse kick.

Ryan blocked his kick with his forearm, guard up. The impact of the kick sent shockwaves through his bones.

Then everything exploded into fast motion, the two of them instantly clashed with each other once again, fists and legs striking one by one without taking any break, the speed of the moves made the air shimmer a bit. The room got filled with the loud sound of impact—short, hard thuds, deep shaky breaths, shoes scraping against the marble.

Ryan's fists were fast, precise, moving like a trained fighter; the rhythm of his boxing techniques was clearly noticeable—jab, hook, cross, slip, pivot. He was using all the moves in the right manner; his footwork was light yet fast.

Victor fought a bit differently—his movements were sharp and measured, the form of his was unmistakable. Simple form of Karate, his strikes were clean, straight, packed with precision and raw power.

Every time Ryan tried to close the distance between him and Victor, Victor countered him with a kick that forced him to stagger back. Every time Victor tried to come in swinging, Ryan used his defence to parry and return with faster punches.

Their movements blurred together; neither of them was ready to stand down. They both had the same spirit in them, not to give up.

The guards who were guarding the door had finally realised that they should step in. One of them pulled out a baton, shouting, "Boss—!"

Ryan didn't even let him finish his sentence; he twisted his body mid-step, throwing a quick yet effective jab straight to the guard's throat. The man stumbled backwards a bit, choking on his saliva.

The second guard lunged forward with a punch. Ryan ducked low, drove his shoulder into his stomach, and pushed himbackwardsd—right into the glass table behind him. The table shattered instantly, shards flying everywhere.

The first guard tried to recover, but Ryan turned, grabbed a bottle from the bar counter, and smashed it against his head in one motion. The man dropped immediately.

Ryan's breathing turned ragged, turning his attention back to Victor—who was now standing beside the couch, stretching his neck with a wide grin on his lips.

"Impressive," his voice came low, calm. "But, you'll have to do better than that, dear sire."

Ryan didn't responk to him; his knuckles were now completely red, blood flowing faster, a little bit scraped, as a little drop of blood dropped down from his knuckle.

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