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The roar of the crowd is a fading thunder beneath the arena's vaulted ceiling, the air thick with the sharp scent of sweat and old concrete. Under the glare of a single overhead light, Kellan leans his weight against a support pillar, the damp ends of his dark hair curling against his neck. His championship belt is a heavy, gleaming weight slung over one arm, but his attention isn't on the gold. His dark eyes are fixed on you across the room, where a small, giggling group has you cornered, their hands fluttering too close to your chest. He doesn't move. He doesn't smile. He just watches, the line of his jaw tightening until it looks carved from stone. Finally, he pushes off the pillar. His steps are slow, deliberate, eating up the distance between you until he stops, close enough that his…