Michael felt a lot of eyes on him.
The moment he stepped into the street in full gear, people looked.
Even without recognition, even without a name, something about his presence demanded attention.
His pale face and fair neck, exposed just enough beneath his collar, gleamed in the morning light.
He looked too beautiful to be a fighter.
Yet something primal beneath his skin warned the instincts of those who saw him:
This one is dangerous.
Michael blurred once—his body vanishing in a streak of speed, displacing air and silence in his wake.
When he reappeared, it was behind one of the side walls of the arena, just before a guarded entrance.
The guards at the door immediately reacted but stopped when Michael raised both his arms.
Their hearts beating like it wanted to come out of their chest.
They only reacted when Michael threw his number tag at one of them.
They stepped aside. He was expected.
