The roar of the crowd still rang in Liam's ears, a chaotic symphony of cheers and jeers. He'd defied Volkov. He'd won. But the victory tasted like ash in his mouth. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he’d just painted a target the size of the Echo Arena on his back.

Razor Riley had been ecstatic, slapping Liam on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "I knew you had it in you, kid! I bloody knew it! You showed him! You showed them all!" But Liam had seen the shadow cross Razor’s face, the fleeting flicker of worry that mirrored his own. Razor knew what was coming.

Liam was still buzzing with adrenaline, his muscles screaming in protest against the abuse they’d endured in the cage. He’d taken a beating, sure, but he’d given one back. The other fighter, a hulking mountain of a man nicknamed "The Mauler," was now likely nursing a broken jaw and a severely bruised ego. Liam, however, was nursing a far more pressing concern: Viktor Volkov.

He found Aisling waiting for him backstage, her face pale but illuminated with a joyous smile. "Liam! You were amazing! I was so worried, but you… you were incredible!"

He hugged her tightly, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender and hope. "Did you see it all?"

"Every second," she said, squeezing him back. "I was shouting so loud, I think I lost my voice."

That smile, that fragile flicker of health in her eyes, was all the reward he needed. It almost made the impending storm seem manageable. Almost.

"Right, I need to get you home," he said, pulling back. "It's late."

As they walked out of the arena, the crowd had thinned, leaving behind a scattering of stragglers and the lingering smell of beer and sweat. Liam scanned the faces, his senses on high alert. He didn't see anything overtly threatening, but he felt the weight of unseen eyes, the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

They made it to the old Ford Fiesta he'd patched together with more hope than engineering skill. As he unlocked the door for Aisling, a figure detached itself from the shadows of a nearby building.

He was immense, a monolith of muscle and menace. His head was shaved bald, revealing a network of scars that crisscrossed his skull like a roadmap of violence. A thick, black beard obscured the lower half of his face, and his eyes were cold, reptilian, devoid of any warmth or humanity. He moved with a terrifying stillness, a coiled spring of controlled aggression.

Liam knew, instinctively, who this was. He’d heard the whispers, the hushed tones that spoke of Volkov's enforcer, the man they called "The Butcher."

"Liam O'Connell," The Butcher's voice was a low growl, like rocks grinding together. "Volkov sends his regards."

Liam pushed Aisling gently behind him. "I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to keep his voice steady, projecting an air of confidence he didn't feel.

The Butcher chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. The fight. The little show you put on. Mr. Volkov is… displeased."

"He paid me," Liam retorted. "I fought. I won. End of story."

"End of story? Oh, it's far from over. You see, Mr. Volkov invested in you. He had plans for you. You were supposed to… cooperate. You didn't. Now, you owe him a debt. A debt that must be repaid."

Liam glanced at Aisling, her eyes wide with fear. He couldn’t let this escalate. Not here. Not with her present. "Look, I'll pay him back. I'll get the money. Just… leave us alone."

The Butcher took a step closer, his shadow engulfing Liam. "Money? This isn't about money anymore. This is about respect. This is about sending a message. Mr. Volkov doesn't take kindly to being disobeyed."

He raised a hand, thick and scarred, and Liam knew he was about to attack. He braced himself, adrenaline surging through his veins.

"Liam, no!" Aisling cried out, grabbing his arm.

Liam pushed her away, shielding her with his body. He feinted left, then right, trying to create an opening. The Butcher didn't flinch. He simply stepped forward, his hand a blur, connecting with Liam's jaw with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded in Liam's head. He staggered backward, his vision blurring. He tasted blood.

"Run, Aisling! Run!" he shouted, trying to keep his focus.

She hesitated for a moment, torn between running and staying with him. Then, with a sob, she turned and fled, disappearing into the maze of streets surrounding the arena.

The Butcher watched her go with a cold indifference. "Now, where were we?"

Liam knew he couldn't win a straight fight against this behemoth. He was faster, more agile, but The Butcher was a tank, built to absorb punishment and dish it out in equal measure. He had to use his wits.

He ducked under another blow, narrowly avoiding a broken nose. He scrambled back, putting distance between them. "Look," he gasped, "I'll fight for him. I'll do whatever he wants. Just… don't hurt my sister."

The Butcher paused, considering. "Mr. Volkov is a businessman. He appreciates a good deal. But he also appreciates loyalty. You broke that. You humiliated him. You think a few more fights will erase that?"

He shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement that radiated menace. "No. The debt must be paid in full. And it will be paid in blood."

He lunged again, and this time, Liam was ready. He used the momentum of The Butcher's attack against him, sidestepping and shoving him off balance. The Butcher stumbled, momentarily disoriented.

Liam seized the opportunity. He kicked out, aiming for The Butcher's knee. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

The kick connected, sending a jolt of pain up Liam's leg. The Butcher roared in anger, grabbing his knee.

Liam didn't wait to see the effect. He turned and ran, his lungs burning, his body screaming in protest. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he had to get away. He had to protect Aisling.

He glanced back and saw The Butcher, hobbling after him, his face contorted with rage. Liam knew he couldn't outrun him forever. He needed to find a place to hide, a place to regroup.

He ducked into a narrow alleyway, the stench of stale urine and rotting garbage filling his nostrils. He pressed himself against the damp brick wall, trying to catch his breath.

He could hear The Butcher's heavy footsteps pounding on the pavement outside. He was getting closer.

Liam closed his eyes, trying to think. He needed a plan. He needed help. He needed Razor.

He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking. He dialed Razor's number and held his breath, praying he would answer.

The phone rang, once, twice, three times…

Finally, Razor's gruff voice crackled through the speaker. "Liam? What the hell do you want? It's late…"

"Razor, it's Volkov. He sent The Butcher after me. I need your help."

There was a long pause. Then, Razor said, his voice tight with concern, "Where are you? I'm on my way."

Liam gave him his location and hung up, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know if Razor could help him, but it was the only chance he had. He had to survive. He had to protect Aisling. He had to fight, inside and outside the ring, for everything he held dear.