Wren's heart pounded in anticipation as she walked down the dimly lit alleyway. She was desperate tonight. More desperate than she'd ever been. She had nothing left, not even a mask to shield her identity. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and distant cigarette smoke. Graffiti covered the walls like tattoos on skin, their vibrant colors muted by the darkness.
She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no one followed her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pressed forward, her footsteps echoing against the alley's walls. At the end of the narrow passage, a flickering neon sign buzzed faintly, casting an eerie glow on the rusted door beneath it.
With a steady hand, Wren pushed open the door and slipped inside. The scene before her was straight out of a gritty underworld tale. The air was thick with sweat and tension, the room bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights. The floor was a patchwork of scuffed concrete, the sound of shuffling feet and muttered conversations filling the air.
Rows of spectators lined the makeshift arena, their faces obscured by shadows as they leaned forward, eagerly awaiting the night's entertainment. Wren weaved through the crowd, her hood shielding her face slightly, senses on high alert as she made her way toward the center of the room.
The other fighters, clad in worn-out gear and grim expressions, circled each other like predators in the ring. The atmosphere crackled with energy as bets were placed and alliances formed, the promise of violence hanging heavy in the air.
Wren scanned the dimly lit bar, her eyes lingering on the battered menu board above the counter. Feeling wilder than normal with all the adrenaline running through her veins, she approached the bartender, her voice low but determined.
"I'll take a whiskey on the rocks and a beer," she said. She knew she'd have to win her fight to cover the tab. It was incentive. For herself.
As the bartender poured her drinks, Wren's gaze drifted to the arena in the center of the room. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. She took a sip of her whiskey, letting the fiery liquid burn down her throat as she mentally prepared for the challenge ahead.
With the liquid courage she approached the booth where the fight coordinator sat and all she said was her name.
"Nightingale."
The man's eyes widened as he looked up to see her face. And he didn't even try to stop her. He simply gestured for her to enter the ring. Her reputation must've finally started getting around to this end of town.
Moments later, Wren found herself in the center of the ring, hood up around her face, praying the smokey haze and the dim lighting would make it so no one would immediately recognize her. Her muscles coiled like springs as she faced off against her opponent. The crowd roared with excitement, their cheers echoing off the walls as the fight began.
Her opponent was a man his muscles rippled beneath a thin layer of sweat, his movements calculated and precise. He had a rugged, weathered appearance, with scars crisscrossing his cheeks and temples.
His eyes, cold and steely, locked onto Wren's with unwavering intensity as they circled each other in the ring. There was a silent understanding between them.
His fists were clenched at his sides, his stance steady and unwavering. He moved with the grace of a predator, every muscle coiled and ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Adrenaline still pumping through veins, Wren danced around her opponent, her movements fluid and precise. She dodged punches with ease, her years of training paying off as she countered with a series of quick jabs.
The fight was fierce and intense, each blow driving Wren closer to victory. And then, with a final, well-placed strike, her opponent stumbled backward. She'd hit him three times. She'd officially won.
The crowd erupted into cheers as Wren raised her arms in triumph, her heart pounding with exhilaration. She quickly retrieved her winnings from the referee, a mixture of cash and coins that would more than cover her tab.
With a satisfied grin, Wren made her way back to the bar, dropping the money on the counter with a nod of thanks. She downed the rest of her whiskey in one swift motion, the burn of the alcohol warming her from the inside out.
As she headed for the door, the sounds of the fight club faded behind her. Her fear that she wasn't going to survive was beginning to dissipate. She had a few hundred dollars in her hands and she was going to get through the next few days.
As Wren stumbled around the corner of the alleyway, the haze of alcohol lingering in her mind, her steps faltered as she came face to face with an unexpected sight—a sleek motorcycle parked in the shadows, its engine purring softly in the night. Leaning against the bike, a figure waited, their features obscured by the darkness.
Wren blinked, trying to focus her bleary eyes as she took in the scene before her. Her first instinct was to be afraid, but then she realized she recognized the face dimly lit by the flickering streetlamp.
"Jungkook?" she managed to slur out, her voice wavering slightly as she steadied herself against the wall. She was dreaming right? He couldn't possibly be here.
"Hey, Princess."
~A/N:
Hello friends, I know it's been FOREVER. But I'm back. And you can bet these next few chapters are going to be crazy!!!
~ Love Sasha
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My You | Jungkook FanFic
Fanfic| Ranked #1 - kpopidols, Jungkook, korean, btsarmy, popmusic, boxing | In the light, Wren is political royalty. But in the dark, she weaves through the shadows as an underground street fighter. When Jungkook stumbles upon Wren in action, he can't...
