The roar of the crowd from the fixed fight in my ears had barely faded before the real fight began. Not one under the bright lights of a sanctioned ring, but a desperate scramble for survival on the rain-slicked streets of Liverpool. Volkov’s face, a mask of incandescent rage, was the last thing I saw before Razor shoved me out the back door of Blackwood, a crumpled twenty-pound note clutched in my hand.

“Go, Liam! Go and don’t look back!” Razor had yelled, his voice a hoarse whisper above the thrum of the illicit gambling den operating below the gym. "They'll be after you like wolves!"

And he was right.

I didn’t even bother trying to go back to the tiny flat above the chip shop. Volkov’s reach was long, his influence insidious. He’d have men watching, waiting. Aisling… Aisling was all that mattered. I had to buy her time, buy her safety.

The rain plastered my hair to my forehead as I sprinted down the alleyway, the twenty pounds feeling like a lead weight in my pocket. Liverpool at night was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, a place where desperation bred survival. I’d grown up navigating these streets, knew the back alleys and hidden corners like the lines on my own hand. But this wasn’t just a childhood game of hide-and-seek; this was a life-or-death chase.

The first few hours were a blur of adrenaline-fueled movement. I stuck to the shadows, using the maze of docks as cover. The biting wind off the Mersey stung my face, the salt spray a constant reminder of the city’s unforgiving nature. I knew Volkov wouldn’t rely solely on his muscle. He’d use his contacts, his influence with the local gangs. I had to disappear, become a ghost in the machine.

I used the few pounds I had to buy a cheap, dark hoodie and a baseball cap, disguising myself as best I could. I scrounged for scraps of food in bins behind restaurants, the shame a bitter taste in my mouth. This wasn’t the future I envisioned when I walked into Blackwood, the future where I was going to save Aisling, but here I was, a rat in the sewers, hunted by a man with too much power.

I spent the night in a derelict warehouse, the damp concrete seeping into my bones. The constant creaks and groans of the building, the skittering of rats, kept me awake. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I replayed the fight in my head, every punch, every dodge, every moment of defiance. I hadn’t meant to win. But something inside me snapped, a primal urge to fight back, to refuse to be controlled. Now, that defiance had painted a target on my back.

The next morning, hunger gnawing at my stomach, I knew I couldn't keep running on empty. I needed a plan, and I needed allies. I remembered a face from my past, a face etched with resentment against Volkov. Mickey "The Fixer" Flanagan. Mickey was a small-time gambler who’d gotten on the wrong side of Volkov after refusing to throw a fight a few years back. Volkov had broken his leg, permanently crippling him and ending his career. I hadn’t seen Mickey in years, but I knew he held a deep-seated grudge.

Finding Mickey wasn't easy. He’d disappeared from the usual haunts, driven underground by his debts and his bitterness. But I remembered him mentioning a hidden betting shop in Toxteth, a place where the odds were long and the rules were bent. After hours of searching, asking around in hushed tones, I found it. A dingy, unmarked doorway behind a boarded-up storefront.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of stale beer. Men huddled around flickering screens, their faces illuminated by the glow of televised races. Mickey was there, slumped in a corner, his leg propped up on a stack of old newspapers. He looked older, more worn down than I remembered.

“Mickey?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked up, his eyes squinting through the gloom. Recognition flickered in his gaze. “Liam? Liam O’Connell? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

I quickly explained my situation, the fixed fight, Volkov’s fury, and my desperate need for help. Mickey listened intently, his expression hardening with each word.

“Volkov, eh?” he spat, a glint of anger in his eyes. “That bastard. Always thought he’d get his comeuppance. So, you screwed him over, did you?” A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, “But I couldn’t… I just couldn’t lose.”

Mickey chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “I understand. Believe me, I understand. Volkov thinks he owns this city. He thinks he can control everyone. But he’s wrong. There are people who remember what he’s done, people he’s screwed over. People who’d like to see him fall.”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright, Liam. I’ll help you. I might be crippled, but I still know a few people. People who owe me favors. People who hate Volkov as much as I do.”

Mickey led me to a back room, a cluttered space filled with dusty ledgers and outdated technology. He started making calls, his voice low and conspiratorial. He spoke in coded phrases, mentioning names and numbers that meant nothing to me.

“First,” he said, hanging up the phone, “we need to get you somewhere safe. Volkov’s got eyes everywhere. I know a place, a safe house run by an old friend. She doesn’t ask questions, and she hates bullies.”

The safe house turned out to be a small, unassuming flat in a working-class neighborhood. It was owned by a woman named Maggie, a retired nurse with a no-nonsense attitude and a surprisingly sharp wit. She took one look at my bruised face and offered me a cup of tea and a warm bed without a word.

With a safe place to lay low, Mickey started putting his plan into action. He introduced me to a network of individuals who had been wronged by Volkov. There was Danny “The Brick” Brixton, a former enforcer who Volkov had discarded after he’d served his purpose. There was Sarah Chen, a young accountant who had been forced to falsify records to cover up Volkov's illegal activities. There was even a former Blackwood fighter, a welterweight named Tyrone "The Typhoon" Jones, who had been cheated out of his winnings and left with permanent injuries.

Each of them had a story to tell, a tale of exploitation and abuse at the hands of Volkov. And each of them was eager to help bring him down.

Danny, with his intimidating size and knowledge of Volkov’s security protocols, helped me learn how to move undetected, how to avoid surveillance, how to anticipate Volkov’s next move. Sarah, with her insider knowledge of Volkov’s finances, provided me with crucial information about his illegal operations, his network of contacts, and his hidden assets. Tyrone, still nursing his injuries, trained with me, honing my fighting skills, pushing me to my limits.

We were a motley crew, a band of misfits and outcasts, united by a shared desire for justice. We were the underdogs, the people Volkov had dismissed and exploited. But we were also the ones who knew his weaknesses, the ones who had the most to gain from his downfall.

As I trained and planned with my newfound allies, I felt a flicker of hope, a spark of defiance reigniting within me. I was no longer just running, no longer just trying to survive. I was fighting back. I was building an army, brick by brick, fueled by anger, resentment, and a burning desire to protect my sister and expose the darkness that lurked beneath the glitz of the combat world. Volkov had underestimated me. He had mistaken my desperation for weakness. He was about to learn that a cornered dog is the most dangerous of all. The hunt was on, and this time, I was the one doing the hunting.