CHARLES FOX.
“Why did you stop?” Old Rag demanded as he strode into my dressing room, his voice slicing through the tense air.
“No reason,” I answered, my tone flat as I ran a towel through my damp hair. The moment I stepped out of the ring, I jumped straight into the shower, desperate to wash away the lingering rage. I had been inches away from tearing that guy apart, craving the sight of his blood as they declared me the victor. But I had forced myself to stop. I couldn’t keep feeding the monster inside me. The more I gave in to that beast, the more insatiable it became—always hungry for more, constantly pushing me closer to losing what little morality I had left. It took everything in me to resist, to deny the crowd what they were screaming for.
“No reason? That’s your excuse?” Old
