Maybe only a few times a month Sylas would visit the underground rings. They were more popularized considering that they held a massive prize pool for winning and their fights were strictly one-on-one bare fists. It was like a club in almost every way as it had all the seas of howling tempestuous onlookers, musty and barely breathable air filled with all manners of smoke and fumes, and it was generally dark with the exception of thin neon lights flashing about and generally dark red undertones. In comparison to the fights his gang held, the ones in the underground rings were usually more interesting since the participants were more well-known, while his gang consisted of civilians and rarely did their names ever grow past in-gang popularity.

One of the main reasons he’d stop by wasn’t to actually see the fights, it was actually because he was friends with the founder and orchestrator, Lorraine. He was an oddball that never seemed to have grown past his sophomore year, considering the fact that he was barely five feet tall and looked fifteen.

Despite his appearances, he had a screw loose and always threatened to set Sylas’s apartment on fire if he didn’t visit every now and then, and Sylas knew him well enough to know he wasn’t joking. They ended up becoming friends after Sylas did all manners of illicit favors for him long in the past, which he garners is what led Lorriane to building the empire he held today.

As soon as Sylas entered, he got caught by Lorriane who was evidently waiting impatiently for him.

“Come on, come on! You’re late the match is about to start!” He swiftly grabs Sylas by the arm and drags him to his private room situated high above the crowd, allowing for a clear view of all below.

Before they even seat themselves down, service girls pour each of them a glass of liquor and offer Sylas a light for his cigarette, to which he declines and opts to light it himself. Letting someone light it for him felt like he was cheating on his crush, although he’d let them do it in the past before Actavio.

A cloud of grey leaves his pursed lips as he speaks, “You’re awfully excited. I mean you usually are but more than usual.”

Lorianne sits with his legs pretzeled on the armchair–he almost never sat with his legs down.

“Because someone challenged the champion!!!!!! I just love watching him fight but he rarely participates in pools. Like every other Friday at best, so it’s an extra treat since it’s still a weekday! You never watched him fight right?”

“Can’t say for sure–”

“Ooohhhh!!! Shhh! It’s starting it’s starting!!”

From the opposing corners of the rings, two men emerge and immediately the house chants loud enough for the walls to vibrate:

NE-PHI-LIM! NE-PHI-LIM!

The name of the reigning champion, Sylas garnered. It was probably the man in the white hooded jacket that shielded most of his guise. He was wearing what appeared to be a mask covering the lower half of his face. While anonymity was common in Sylas’s gang, it was rare for the underground rings to have anonymous fighters, let alone their champion of all people.

On the other end of the ring was a gargantuan man that was clearly on too many synthetic performance enhancers; Sylas didn’t need to see how the champion fought to know he wouldn’t lose to something like that. People who used drugs to fortify their strength or resilience weeded out lesser fighters–people not fit for this kind of hostile environment in the first place.

“You guys don’t screen these fights? I’d imagine all sorts of punks try to challenge the champ.” Sylas taps the embers off and into the ashtray between them.

“We do,” Lorianne hasn’t taken a single sip of his booze since he really wasn’t one for drinking, “but, he hasn’t fought anyone in the past few months and people started to complain. You know, stuff like how can he call himself the best if he doesn’t even fight! That stuff.”

The announcer introduces the fighters then gives an opportunity for each of the fighters to say their piece. Puffing his chest, the larger man boasts about how small the champion is by comparison long enough for the announcer to cut him off and pass the torch to the champion, who shoos it away without a single word.

Reminds me of someone, Sylas thinks to himself with a warm grin.

“Man of few words huh? I’m guessing he didn’t choose his name then.”

“Yep, people gave it to him since he always wears that same white hooded jacket. The way it reflects the light makes him look like an angel, but since he’s well…an asshole, a nephilim.”

After the announcer continues on with formalities, somehow managing to rile the audience more than they’re already riled, the match begins at the ring of a blank shot.

Immediately the larger man throws a punch and the champion dodges with a small step to the side. With how sluggish the large man is due to his size, the champion is given enough of an opening to seize his arm and pull him forward, throwing him off balance and making it easy to sweep his feet and knock him to the ground. The large man gets the wind knocked out of him and before he can try to recover, the champion winds his leg back and slams his heel into his head, knocking him unconscious.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The crowd erupts into a roar of applauses and more chanting:

NE-PHI-LIM! NE-PHI-LIM!

Just what Sylas expected to happen, and even with that he agreed that the speed and precision performed far exceeded that of your day-to-day person or even professional.

Subsequently, the announcer reemerges and announces the champion as the long standing victor before trying a second time to allow him to say a few words, and again he silently and rudely declines then walks off the stage.

In the same moment, Sylas puts out his cigarette and stands up, making his way to the room’s exit.

“Whaaaat?! That’s it! Where are you going–don’t you wanna see the other matches?!!”

“Not really, I do wanna say my congrats to the champ though.”

“I wouldn’t do that he–”

“Doesn’t like people? I can see that.” Sylas’s grin turns into a cocky smirk. “Thanks for the booze Lorri, I’ll catch you some other time.”

“Whatever man, you’re so boring sometimes.”

Through Lorriane’s pouting, Sylas leaves the room anyways.

It ends up quite the struggle for Sylas to comb through the crowd in an attempt to reach the champion before he escapes altogether, but luckily he’s also fighting against the current as torrents of people congratulate him on his attempt to depart. Eventually, Sylas ends up close enough but gets flung forward by the crowd and strikes shoulders with the champion instead of stopping in front of him.

“Shit–sorry–” As the words leave his mouth, Sylas looks back and locks eyes with the champion.

He knew those eyes. Hazel-blue. Cold as ice.

If that wasn’t enough of a sign, the mutual eyebrow raise indicating familiarity gives it away. Actavio. That was three times now, not that Sylas was complaining.

Actavio clicks his tongue and pulls his hood lower, forcing his way through the onslaughts of people as he rushes to get away after having been recognized.

Now, Sylas had something he could use as leverage. The delinquent hid his infatuated smile behind a curled hand. His love was just in arms reach now.

----------------------------------------

That Wednesday Sylas happily awaited Actavio’s arrival so much so that he arrived an hour early. By the time he finished his third cigarette, the bell chimed signaling another patron.

“Welcome.” Ruth spoke across the bar.

The well maintained suit was all too recognizable to Sylas. He’d seen it a thousand times from the corner of his eye.

Red wine, whatever kind you fancy. “Red wine, whatever kind you fancy.”

Sylas thought in unison with the utterance of the statement; he didn’t even try to suppress his outwardly painted glee.

Actavio seemed to be deliberating something as he paused with uncertainty between each sip of his liquor.

Then, he sighed and reluctantly spoke, “You. You’re Sly Fox, correct?”

The voice almost made him jump in his skin. He was more engrossed in his romantic and lustful fantasies and conjured up future with the mob boss than he realized.

Swallowing his desire to scream in happiness that he acknowledged his existence let alone knew who he was, Sylas turned down the intensity of his smile and replied, “Yeah. I don’t really do odd jobs anymore if that’s why you’re asking.”

Actavio’s expression soured and he returned back to his drink.

In the past Sylas would’ve gotten discouraged but now he understood that was just his nature. An unsympathetic prick of few words and lots of glares.

Likewise, Sylas returned to his own devices, relishing in his fantasies as he listened to Actavio slowly drink.

Earlier than usual, the Head stood from the counter and paid for his drink. This time however, he stopped right before Sylas and knelt down.

“Outside.”

It was the only word he spoke before continuing to the exit. Hearing his voice so close to his ear…no no no no he couldn’t indulge in that right now. He beckoned him. He beckoned him!

Sylas tossed the rest of his booze to the back of his throat, slapped his face straight, then left the bar where Actavio awaited him in the silent alley.

The silent drone of late night traffic barely reached them. Not a soul in sight.

Instantly, he snapped without giving Sylas a chance to speak, “Forget what you saw.”

The delinquent had a feeling that’s what this was about, and if Actavio wasn’t going to bring it up then he was, so he already had everything planned out.

“Forget what? Ohh, you mean that you’re the underground ring’s years long champion?”

Actavio quickly grew irritated. “Don’t play games with me.”

Sylas’s smirk grew wider. “I’m not, I’m just saying. If you wanted me quiet you could’ve just killed me you know, much easier, less trouble.”

“And have to deal with your immense posse of followers afterwards? It baffles me that they even follow a man as daft as you.”

The eloquent way of speaking that Actavio had only elongated the stretching list of reasons why Sylas fell in love with the mafia boss. It was like he was constantly degrading you from that alone.

He whipped himself back together. Focus, Sylas, focus!

If he dwindled on it too much he’d undeniably get a pitched tent and that’d be a one-way ticket for Actavio to never speak to him again.

“So you’re asking me to just forget about it? You and I both know that’s not how things work on the streets.”

Actavio sighed a groan, catching his drift. “What do you want?”

Sylas gathered his confidence and stepped closer until he trapped Actavio against the wall, though the gesture didn’t phase him.

“Give me one night and this little fox will be as forgetful as a goldfish.”

“And how do I know you won’t use that against me as well?”

“I won’t. Who’d believe me anyways? You’ve got two kids that only match you in hair and one in eyes and still no one believes that THE Actavio could ever do any wrong. Or more like they don’t want to point it out because they’re so scared of you, not that it matters.” Sylas closes in enough for them to be mere inches apart, then purrs with false comfort, “So?”

Asking anymore of Actavio, like something as ridiculous as being friends with benefits he knew he'd strictly decline and become harder to approach with any other offer. He wanted to start small, and he was willing to wait as long as he needed to for Actavio to be his.

“Fine.” Actavio begrudgingly spat out, then shifted on his heel and began walking away in a flash.

At first Sylas waited, but after he glanced back at him he hurried after, hardly believing in what was about to transpire.