Pritttt—!
The referee's whistle cut the air, sharp as steel.
Both teams halted their warm-ups, jogging toward the center circle. The ritual began—line against line, handshakes passing like sparks before the storm.
Julian's gaze fixed on D-Lo.
Something about him was different.
His face wasn't just focused—it was emptied, like a man who had carved out his own fear and left only one thing inside: do or die.
Danger. Pure and simple.
When their hands clasped, Julian felt it. The grip was iron, digging into his bones, heavier than the handshake of an opponent. It was a promise.
Their eyes met—just a flicker, but enough. One look carrying a hundred meanings. Rivalry. Fury. Defiance. The hunger of a beast that would burn itself to ash just to bite once more.
Julian didn't flinch. His hand tightened in return, silent reply etched in his stare: Then die.
They released, and the moment vanished with the shifting lines.
