They were packed shoulder to shoulder behind the chain-link fence, a sea of desperate gamblers and thrill-seekers, all of them screaming for the same thing.

More blood.

Three rounds was longer than most.

The crowd's roar swelled as YN stepped forward, fists still raised, breath coming in controlled, measured bursts. The ref—a wiry man with a scarred face and a whistle around his neck—was already moving in, ready to call it.

Then the lights went out.

A beat of confused silence. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman laughed nervously. Someone shouted for the generator. Then the emergency floodlights kicked on, and the arena was bathed in harsh red.

The far wall exploded inward.

Concrete and rebar screamed as a massive explosion tore through the warehouse, sending debris flying across the arena. Spectators scattered, screaming. The brawler on his knees tried to scramble away, but a hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up.

The arena dissolved into pandemonium. Quirks erupted. Fights broke out. The ref dropped his whistle and ran.

And YN stood in the center of it all, alone in the cage, watching the explosion-wielding hero's gaze sweep across the chaos—and land on them.