The news cycle was a relentless beast. One day, Blackwood was the place to be, the next, it was a cesspool, the very definition of everything wrong with the fight game. The leaked evidence, the online forum whispers amplified a thousand times by the media frenzy, had painted a picture of Viktor Volkov so dark, so thoroughly devoid of humanity, that he was practically a cartoon villain. And yet, Liam knew, the real Volkov was far more dangerous than any caricature. He was a cornered animal, and cornered animals bite the hardest.

The raid itself had been almost anti-climactic. Police sirens blared, doors splintered, and armed officers swarmed the Academy. Volkov, however, was nowhere to be found. He’d vanished into the labyrinthine network of back rooms, hidden passages, and favors owed that made Blackwood more like a fortress than a gym.

Liam, holed up in a small, rented apartment above a chippy in Toxteth, felt a perverse sense of relief mixed with creeping dread. The world knew the truth. Volkov’s empire was crumbling. Aisling was scheduled for her crucial surgery. He should have been celebrating. But he knew Volkov wouldn’t simply fade away. He was too invested, too ruthless.

The phone rang, jolting him from his thoughts. It was Razor.

"Liam, listen to me carefully," Razor's voice was gravelly, laced with an urgency Liam hadn’t heard before. "Volkov's gone to ground. But he's not leaving. He's planning something… final."

"Final how?" Liam asked, his hand tightening around the phone.

"He’s arranged a fight. A big one. Unsanctioned, underground. Against Dimitri 'The Siberian Bear' Voronov. Volkov’s pet, his absolute weapon."

Liam’s stomach clenched. Voronov. A monster of a man, built like a brick shithouse, with a reputation for brutality that preceded him. He’d seen him train, a terrifying spectacle of raw power and cold, calculating violence.

"He wants me to fight Voronov?" Liam asked, incredulous.

"He's already announced it. It's all over the dark web. He's calling it a 'purge'. Says he's cleansing Blackwood of the rot. He's framing you as the source of it all, Liam. Says this is the only way to restore order."

“And what happens if I say no?”

Razor sighed. “He won’t give Aisling her treatment, Liam. And trust me, he has ways of making that stick. He'll disappear her. He’ll make your life, and the life of anyone close to you, a living hell. He’s got nothing left to lose."

Liam closed his eyes, the weight of the situation crushing him. He was trapped. Volkov had backed him into a corner, using Aisling as leverage once again.

"Where?" Liam asked, his voice flat.

"Old abandoned warehouse down by the docks. West side. Three days from now. Be ready, Liam. This isn't going to be like anything you've ever faced."

The next three days were a blur of frantic preparation. Razor pushed him harder than ever, drilling him relentlessly, focusing on footwork, evasion, and exploiting Voronov's predictable aggression. He reached out to some of the fighters he’d befriended, the ones who’d suffered under Volkov's regime. They couldn't offer much in the way of physical assistance, but they provided information, whispered strategies, and a sense of grim solidarity.

He also spent as much time as possible with Aisling. He told her about the surgery, about the positive prognosis, carefully omitting the details of how he was funding it. He wanted her to face the future with hope, not burdened by the darkness he was about to confront. He read to her, they watched old movies, they laughed. He tried to soak up every moment, knowing that this could be their last peaceful time together.

The day of the fight dawned grey and bleak, mirroring Liam’s mood. He arrived at the warehouse, the air thick with the smell of salt and decay. It was a cavernous space, echoing with the sounds of hushed voices and nervous shuffling. A makeshift ring had been erected in the center, illuminated by harsh, flickering spotlights. The crowd was a motley collection of hardened faces, gambling types, and Volkov's loyal enforcers. The atmosphere was electric, crackling with anticipation and a palpable sense of danger.

Volkov stood ringside, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He was flanked by two hulking figures, The Butcher among them, their eyes fixed on Liam with menacing intensity. He saw the flicker of fear in Volkov’s gaze, the desperation that fueled his cruelty. This wasn’t just about money or power anymore; it was about survival.

He made his way to the ring, Razor by his side. The veteran coach offered a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Remember everything we've worked on," Razor said, his voice low. "Don't let him bully you. Use your speed, your wit. He's strong, but he's slow. Wear him down."

Liam nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked across the ring. Dimitri Voronov was already there, a mountain of muscle and scar tissue. He stood impassively, his eyes devoid of emotion, a predator waiting for its prey.

The referee, a greasy-haired man with a nervous twitch, gave them a perfunctory rundown of the rules. Liam barely heard him. He was focused on Voronov, analyzing his stance, his movements. This wasn't a sanctioned fight. There wouldn't be any rounds, no breaks, no mercy. It was a fight to the finish.

The bell rang, a jarring clang that echoed through the warehouse. The crowd roared, a cacophony of bloodlust and excitement.

Voronov charged, a human battering ram, his fists clenched, his eyes locked on Liam. Liam danced away, using his footwork to evade the initial onslaught. Voronov swung wildly, his punches powerful but telegraphed. Liam slipped inside, landing a quick jab to the nose, drawing a trickle of blood.

Voronov roared in frustration, his attacks becoming even more reckless. Liam continued to move, peppering him with jabs and crosses, frustrating his attempts to land a decisive blow. The crowd grew restless, impatient for the carnage they craved.

In the second round, Voronov finally managed to corner Liam against the ropes. He unleashed a furious flurry of punches, forcing Liam to cover up, absorbing the brutal blows. He felt his ribs crack, his head swim. He knew he couldn't withstand this for long.

He saw an opening, a momentary lapse in Voronov's guard, and seized it. He ducked under a wild haymaker and unleashed a series of rapid-fire body shots, targeting Voronov's liver. The big man grunted, his movements slowing slightly.

Liam knew this was his chance. He had to break Voronov's spirit. He continued to attack the body, relentless and precise. Voronov's breathing became labored, his face contorted in pain.

The fight wore on, a brutal dance of attrition. Liam, battered and bruised, continued to evade Voronov's power punches, chipping away at his stamina. Voronov, his face a mask of blood and sweat, became increasingly frustrated, his attacks losing their power.

In the fifth round, Voronov stumbled, his legs buckling beneath him. Liam seized the opportunity, unleashing a final flurry of punches, a desperate barrage of fists and elbows. Voronov crumpled to the canvas, his eyes glazed over, his body unresponsive.

The referee hesitated, then waved his hands, signaling the end of the fight. Silence descended upon the warehouse, broken only by Liam's ragged breathing. He stood over Voronov's fallen form, his body aching, his face a mask of exhaustion.

Then, the crowd erupted. Not with cheers, but with a low, menacing growl. Volkov’s face was a study in fury. He’d lost. Not just a fight, but everything.

Before Liam could react, The Butcher leaped into the ring, his eyes burning with hatred. He lunged at Liam, a steel glint reflecting from the knife in his hand. Razor, quick as ever, tackled The Butcher from behind, wrestling him to the ground. A chaotic brawl erupted, the crowd surging forward, a maelstrom of fists and fury.

Liam, dazed and injured, stumbled backward, trying to escape the chaos. He saw Volkov standing ringside, his face twisted in a rictus of rage. Volkov pulled a gun from his waistband, aiming it directly at Liam.

"You ruined everything!" Volkov screamed, his voice hoarse with desperation. "You'll pay for this!"

But before Volkov could pull the trigger, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with lightning speed. It was Anya, the waitress from the bar, the one who'd been secretly feeding Liam information. She slammed a metal pipe against Volkov's arm, sending the gun flying.

Volkov roared in pain, clutching his arm. The crowd, stunned by the sudden turn of events, hesitated. Liam seized the opportunity, kicking the gun away and grabbing Volkov, pinning him to the ground.

"It's over, Viktor," Liam said, his voice low and dangerous. "It's all over."

The police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The reign of Viktor Volkov was finally at an end. But Liam knew, even as the sirens heralded justice, that the scars of Blackwood, the steel and the pain, would remain etched on his soul forever.