There was rage coursing through Stephen as he headed toward the base where Game Changer Promotions operated. It wasn’t the loud, explosive kind of anger that made someone shout or lash out without thinking. No, this was the quiet, heavy rage that sat deep in his chest, tightening with every step he took, pressing down on his lungs until even breathing felt deliberate. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale, his nails digging into his palms, yet he barely noticed the pain.
Game Changer Promotions wasn’t a gym. They didn’t train fighters the way Chris had trained him, day after day, with sweat and repetition and belief. They were a promotion company, one that worked with various gyms across the city, and in many cases, gyms they outright owned. Fighters under their banner were moved like pieces on a board. If someone was ranked high enough and bringing in real money, they were usually given their own gym, their own trainers, and carefully selected sparring partners brought in whenever needed. Everything was calculated. Everything was controlled.
Stephen knew all of this because he had done his research.
At one point in his life, he had looked up to Game Changer Promotions. He had studied them, memorized the names of their fighters, imagined what it would be like to walk out under their banner. Back then, he had believed they represented success, that they were the gatekeepers to the world he had been chasing his entire life. That illusion had shattered the moment he learned the truth. And after what had happened at the gym, after Chris, his admiration had twisted into something darker.
This building was the heart of it all.
The office itself was a single, fairly large structure, sleek and modern, designed more for marketing than training. It was where fighters were invited for promo shoots, advertisements, interviews, and public appearances. Cameras, lights, banners, everything meant to sell an image. Stephen knew exactly where it was located. He had walked past it before, slowed his steps before, imagining himself inside. Now, he approached it with an entirely different purpose.
He had thought about revenge before.
After the deal, after the threats, after being forced to throw a fight by injuring those around him, Stephen had considered going back here. He had imagined storming the place, confronting them, demanding answers. But every time, fear had stopped him. Not fear for himself, fear for the people around him. If he beat them up, then what? What if they decided to go further? What if they targeted the gym again? What if someone else ended up broken because of him?
He wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t erase people and walk away free.
But now... now was different.
They had gone too far.
Chris hadn’t needed to go see them. Stephen knew that. There was no reason for it, no benefit. Which meant there was only one possible explanation.
’Chris... I don’t even know why you decided to visit them,’ Stephen thought as his jaw tightened. ’You had no reason to do that... so the only thing I can imagine is guilt.’
The timing lined up too perfectly. Puba had recently become champion. The man Stephen had once been forced to lose against had climbed all the way to the top. Stephen could picture the weight that realization must have placed on Chris’s shoulders, the regret, the sense of failure, the feeling that he had betrayed someone he believed in. Chris must have gone there for Stephen. There was no other reason.
And because of that, someone was going to answer.
When Stephen arrived at the building, a guard was stationed at the car park entrance. He looked bored, standing with his hands resting near his belt, eyes scanning people more out of habit than concern.
"Hey," the guard said as Stephen approached. "Do you have an appointment?"
"I don’t," Stephen replied calmly. "But Kreg will know me. I have something important to discuss with him."
The guard shook his head almost immediately. "Sorry, kid, but a lot of people come here begging for a chance to meet our promotion team. We don’t just let anyone off the street walk in."
Stephen stopped walking.
He slowly lifted his arm and went to throw a punch, then stopped it just short of the guard’s face. The sudden movement made the guard flinch, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.
"But I’m not just anyone," Stephen said quietly, his eyes locked onto the guard’s. "So move... before I make you move."
The guard swallowed.
He was just a simple security guard. Most days, his job consisted of turning people away or calling someone upstairs. He rarely had to fight, and certainly not for the pay he was getting. Whatever was in Stephen’s eyes told him this wasn’t worth it.
He stepped back.
Stephen walked past him without another word.
Inside the building, the atmosphere changed immediately. The first floor was bright, polished, and busy. A receptionist sat behind the front desk, tapping away at a computer. On the main floor, a photoshoot was taking place. Cameras flashed as a rising star posed under studio lights, surrounded by stylists, photographers, and assistants adjusting angles and shouting instructions.
"Hi there," the receptionist said, looking up. "Do you have an appointment?"
"I’m here to see Kreg," Stephen replied. "There’s something I need to ask him."
Stephen already knew it was pointless to explain anything further. He also knew how these places were structured. The boss’s office would be on the top floor. The building only had three floors. That meant one thing.
He walked straight past the desk and toward the stairs.
"Wait!" the receptionist shouted. "You can’t just barge in here!"
Stephen didn’t stop.
As he reached the staircase, the boxer who had been doing the photoshoot stepped in front of him, clearly irritated at the interruption.
"Hey, I think you entered the wron, "
Stephen’s fist slammed into the man’s stomach.
The punch was sudden, brutal, and precise. The boxer hadn’t been prepared for real violence, not like this. The air exploded out of his lungs as he doubled over, eyes wide in shock. Before he could even fall, Stephen followed up with a hook, his knuckles crashing into the man’s jaw and sending him to the ground.
He didn’t look back.
Stephen took the stairs two at a time, moving quickly and with purpose. No one else tried to stop him. Fear spread faster than authority ever could.
By the time he reached the third floor, the space had gone quiet. The entire floor consisted of a single large office. Stephen burst through the door without hesitation.
"What the, ?" Kreg shouted, nearly jumping out of his seat. "What the heck? Who the f**k are you?"
"Someone I know," Stephen said evenly, stepping forward. "Came in here not too long ago. Maybe yesterday, if I had to guess. And I have a theory that you decided to make him leave with a little bit of force."
Kreg squinted, studying Stephen’s face.
Then realization hit.
"You," Kreg sneered. "The boxer who’s already lost so many fights. What the heck is wrong with these people? Get him out of here!"
He snapped his fingers, and two guards rushed forward.
But Stephen was already moving.
This wasn’t a boxing match. There were no rules, no referee, no bell. He planted his feet and threw a heavy uppercut straight into one guard’s face, snapping his head back. He ducked under the second guard’s swing, drove another punch into his body, then followed up with a sharp jab and a brutal hook that dropped both men to the floor.
They didn’t get back up.
Stephen stood still, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on Kreg.
"Do you know," Stephen said slowly, "there’s a saying that boxers have a license to kill in the ring?"
He took another step forward.
"And right now... this room is my ring."