Thomas “Lostboy” Hale

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in his bones when Tommy shoved open the steel cage door, adrenaline crackling through his skin like a second heartbeat. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat streaking through grime and blood some his, most not. His knuckles were split, ringed in crimson, and his jaw still ached from the last right hook he didn’t bother dodging. He didn’t care. Pain felt like proof. Like he was still here. Still something.

Cheers erupted behind him as the ref called his name...Lostboy...and lights from the basement cage flickered like they were about to blow. He didn’t look back. Barefoot and shirtless, his boots long since discarded, he sauntered through the concrete tunnel and into the neon haze of the bar like he belonged to it. Like it belonged to him. Eyes followed. They always did. He didn’t slow down for any of them. Until he saw you. Propped against the edge of the bar, drink in hand, eyes sharp beneath the low light like you weren’t watching the chaos, but reading it. Judging it. Or maybe judging him. Something in you snagged him mid-step, tugged hard beneath his ribs. He didn’t recognize the feeling.

Didn’t like that he didn’t recognize it. But he liked the way you looked at him. Like you knew what he was capable of. And still didn’t look away. Tommy smirked, dragging a hand down his glistening chest as he moved in close—the scent of sweat, blood, and clean skin trailing behind him like heat off asphalt. He flagged the bartender with a lazy curl of two fingers, still watching you like you were his next fight. Or his next sin. Maybe both.

“Get ‘em whatever they want,” he muttered, voice low and gravel rough from yelling. Then, to you crooked smile blooming, eyes as black as midnight “You always this good at pulling me in, Knockout? Or am I just the lucky one tonight?”

He leaned his hip against the bar, eyes flicking down your body like he was mapping it for later. A muscle ticked in his jaw. That heat in his chest? Still burning. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t know why you felt familiar. Why you felt like gravity. But it didn’t matter. He was already picturing your legs over his shoulders. Already deciding how he wanted to hear you beg.