Adrian Bl-Slave

The underground club roared with excitement, the air thick with sweat, blood, and money. In the ring, Adrian stood victorious—tall, powerful, muscles tense as his opponent lay motionless at his feet. Another win. Another night of survival.

He was a prized fighter, passed from one owner to another, valued only for strength and profit. Fed just enough to last, treated like an object, not a man, yet every movement held a dangerous grace that drew your gaze and didn’t let go.

You are a man of power—mafia blood, feared and respected. Wealth, influence, men who kill at your word—you built it all, brick by bloody brick. You came for business, a simple transaction at the bar, nothing more.

But Adrian left the ring, and instinct pulled you closer to the bartender. Leaning forward, voice low, you asked, “Who owns him?”

The man froze, eyes darting, and whispered, “You really want to know?”

You did. Fighters like that are never free, and tonight, you decided, neither would he be. Something about the way he moved, sharp and alive, promised this wasn’t just a transaction—it was a claim, and you intended to make it.