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Bare concrete. Cable runs taped to the floor. Doors with other fighters’ names on them, some open, some shut. The runner walks alongside, murmuring timings into her mic, steering us left, then right. A Frenchman with a lanyard says, “Bonne chance,” as I pass.

The corridor ends in a black curtain. We stop. On the other side of it, the crowd is so loud I can feel the vibration through the soles of my feet. The runner holds a hand up—wait—and listens to her headset.

Niamh slaps a hand onto my shoulder. “You’ve done the work, Ry. You’ve earned this. Now go and take what’s yours.”

“Aye,” Davie agrees, squeezing my other shoulder. “Trust yourself, son. I do.”

I nod.

The runner drops her hand, and the bagpipes start. My intro music.

The curtain parts, and I step out into a blaze of white light. A moment later, flames erupt on either side of the entrance, the heat washing over me.

And the noise! Fifteen thousand people, cheering and shouting at the tops of their voices. There are boos too—Vale’s lot, making themselves known. Fine by me. Always has been. Boo all you like. It only spurs me on.

I make my way down towards the cage, keeping my face still and my focus on what’s ahead. But I don’t miss the saltires being waved in a section to my left, blue and white rippling through the crowd. Some fans have even painted their faces with the Scottish colours.

“Axe King! Axe King! Axe King!” The chant rolls around the whole arena.

Phone lights everywhere, hundreds of them, like stars. Folk hanging over the barrier with their hands out. I walk straight past them. Nothing personal. On the way to the cage, the Axe King doesn’t stop for anybody.

But I do look for her.

I don’t need to search long. Six rows back, on the floor. I know the seat number because I checked it myself.

Briony’s on her feet, in my favourite Glasgow Fight Club hoodie, which swamps her. She’s got her arms in the air, a huge smile on her face.

This can’t be easy for her. I know that. If it were the other way round—if it were Briony walking into a cage to fight some lassie—I’d be in bits. But there she is, cheering like there’s no tomorrow.

Liam’s on one side of her, Imran on the other. Neither of them is in Paris for any reason but me—they came purely because their mate’s fighting. They’ve planted themselves either side of her like a pair of bouncers. Good lads.

When I reach the cage, I pull my hoodie off. Davie takes it and folds it over his arm.

Then come the checks.

An official takes each glove in turn and checks the tape, making sure the inspector’s signature is still intact.

“Open.”

I show him the gumshield.

“Arms out.”

He pats me down—sides, waistband, the hem of my shorts—then a backhand to the cup to make sure it’s there.

Next, the cutman. He thumbs Vaseline across my brows and down over my cheekbones, cold and thick.

Davie leans in. Mouth to my ear, because it’s the only way to be heard.

“Your fight. Your pace. Make him come to you.”

I nod, then climb the steps and duck through the door.

I pace the cage. The canvas is firm and cool under my bare feet. I plant a foot high against the fence and lean into the stretch, then switch legs. A few jumps. A roll of the shoulders. A shake of my hands.

I turn to the Scottish section and lift a glove. They go fucking mental.

Then the lights go out.