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The flicker that ignited in his amber eyes sparked something in hers. It was rare to find a man who could hold her attention, someone capable of catching her interest, and yet here was this Rutherford bodyguard, doing just that.

He gave away a tell—one most wouldn’t notice—but after years of training and learning to read people, she saw through his facade. Óscar understood exactly what she had said.

"Da," she replied, her voice dropping with amusement and intrigue, though still veiled in mystery. "I don't say things I don't mean."

The tension between them grew thicker when he leaned in, closing the distance. If Nadezhda had been bothered by it, she would have moved, but instead, she stayed perfectly still, letting him play with fire. She had no problem letting him burn.

"I don’t like beggars," she said, her tone cool and sharp. A man without a spine could never handle a woman like her.

She finished her drink slowly, deliberately, savoring the moment before placing the glass down. This time, she leaned in closer, her hand resting lightly against his chest as her head tilted, lips brushing against his ear. "Make him bleed, and I’ll let you buy me a drink." Her words were a smooth, seductive whisper, with just a touch of cruelty beneath the surface.

With a final, lingering glance at him, Nadezhda took a step back, her slender fingers curling around the freshly poured drink the bartender had placed before her. Her piercing blue eyes studied him one last time, curious to see if he would follow through.

"Excuse me, красивый, I must return to my friends." With that, she turned on her heel and made her exit, her strides confident as she walked back to where the rest of the Russians were seated.

The Russian word slipped from her lips like silk, and it made something shift behind Óscar’s eyes. Not surprise—but interest. Real interest. A man used to reading danger like scripture, and right now, she was scripture wrapped in temptation.

A corner of his mouth lifted—not the teasing one from earlier, but something sharper, slower. More knowing. From the bits and pieces he'd brushed up on over the years from being rivals, it was one he'd only heard a few times. Most others the bodyguard knew were of profanities, shouts and commands to get to safety.

"Handsome, huh?" he repeated, low and amused, with just enough edge to remind her he knew the weight of that word coming from someone like her. "Careful. You start saying things like that and I might think you mean it."

His glass remained untouched on the bar now, forgotten in favor of the game at hand. She stirred her drink like she was stirring him, and she knew it. Hell, part of him wanted it. But, he could also hear a faint voice in the back of his head screaming to run. Óscar leaned in again—not close enough to touch, but close enough that she’d feel it. The gravity of him.

"I don’t mind bold," he said, gaze steady, "but I don’t beg."

He let it hang there, deliberate. Then a pause—a heartbeat—and a single, faint breath of a smile.

"But I’ll ask," a nod to her rules. He could play nice, if he wanted, "What does a dangerous woman like you want to hear?"

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@tolyaveselov post-fight

Nadezhda watched with unwavering focus, her confidence in the outcome absolute. When the Frenchman finally crumpled to the ground, unconscious, she was hardly surprised.

It didn't take long for Toyla to reemerge into the crowd, a hand extended, a drink offered to him, her awareness of his preferences evident in the gesture.

"For a moment, I thought it might be the first death of the night," she mused, a faint trace of disappointment laced in her voice.

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The huff brought a smile to her lips. It hinted at something beneath the surface of his pretty face—something dangerous, something that match her own.

"That’s what they all say," she murmured, her tone low and measured, the curve of her lips twisting into a sardonic smirk. Her fingers idly stirred the golden liquid in her glass, the motion slow, deliberate.

Few could hold her attention—most words fell flat without the body language to back them up. Yet, the man before her? He might just be able to dance with fire.

A wicked spark flashed in her eyes. She was intrigued by his subtle play on words, a of game where both parties had something to offer, though one offer was always made in a far more dangerous manner.

"That is what they all say." Her voice was smooth, enticing—quiet enough for only the two of them to hear, yet heavy with intent. "A compliment."

"Ask nicely, красивый," Nadezhda hummed, her voice like a siren's call, beckoning him further into her waters. "Again, a bold statement." Her azure eyes briefly raked over him, indulging in the slow sip of her drink, savoring the moment before the next move.

A soft huff left him—more breath than laugh. No teeth, not yet, but there was heat behind it. Something coiled and waiting.

"I don’t tend to make promises I can’t back up," he murmured, head tilting slightly, the curl of his mouth deepening, "especially not to someone with eyes like yours."

He let the silence linger for half a beat, the weight of her challenge sinking between them. Óscar wasn’t one to shy away from dares. Hell, he lived for them. And this woman? She wasn’t afraid of the fire. She was the fire.

"Besides," he said, voice smooth but quiet enough to keep it just between them, "I’ve never had a problem holding someone’s attention. It’s what I do with it that tends to get interesting."

His gaze dropped once—to the way she held her glass, how deliberate everything about her was—then back up.

"You watch the fight, preciosa," he added, tone turning just a touch darker, like velvet over steel, "and I’ll give you something to remember."

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Nadezhda couldn’t help but notice the subtle curve of his lips, the slight shift in his expression when she mentioned Vespucci. It intrigued her, sparked something deeper, like a match flirting with the edge of flame.

For now, she could play along. "We are all confined here, until the end," she said, her tone casual, but the rules of fight club were clear, the only way out was on a stretcher. "A bold statement, though. I do hope you don’t disappoint me."

She didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker in her gaze—a calculated coolness paired with something more, something dangerous, as if she reveled in playing with fire.

"I’ve been told patience isn’t my virtue," she continued, a lie. Patience was her game. "But I would hate to find out the reward doesn’t match the wait." A playful smirk curled on her lips, her eyes never leaving his, daring him to prove her wrong.

The disgust of his opponent's name hit Óscar like a ton of brick. He watched the way she said Vespucci’s name—like it tasted rotten in her mouth. He liked that. A subtle curve touched the corner of his lips, more leering now, but still tightly leashed. Proof of his nickname lobo; the wolf of Porto Velho.

"Then I hope you’ll stay long enough to see how that ends," he said evenly, voice still low, still warm, "I tend to make a statement when I don’t like someone either."

He leaned in slightly—not enough to close the space, just enough to let the rest of the world fade behind him.

"And I don’t mind waiting," he added, eyes holding hers like a slow match catching fire, "if the reward’s worth the patience."

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Nadezhda paused mid-stride when she heard a very familiar voice. She did not care for what the Russians did behind closed doors, not her appetite, but she still loathed the French.

"Perhaps you should get up and show them how it's done, da?" French with their lacking manners. "

@mobscene-starters When: Fight Club- Post Rossi v. Erdoğan Fight

"If all the female matchups go this way, Lara will never allow the women to fight again." Lisette sips from her sparkling flute, "and I wouldn't even blame her,"

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who: @konstantinvorshevsky where: the underground when: pre-fights

"We are last in both our categories. Should we take it as a compliment?"

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Ever so slightly did her head cant at the male across from her. Icy blue hues narrow to meet his gaze, and diligent in her work, his name pulls to the forefront of her mind. Oscar Velholobo. Bodyguard of Yvonne Rodriguez

"Does it?" He intrigued her, inappreciably.

Nadezhda could pacify the man and simply answers his question, yet, what would be the fun in that. Slender fingers curled around the glass, lifting it up to her painted lips, indulging in the sweet burn that coated the back of her throat. Silence pleased the Russian.

"You will have to wait to find out." Her attention never left his, glass once more placed on the toaster. "I see you are fighting Vespucci." Disgust laced in her tone uttering that buffoon's name.

It was a full crowd; yet a good one. Filled with laughter and excitement. Abruptly, Óscar felt the heat of a presence against his back. Turning, he saw a gorgeous woman. An angel, if he didn't know better. And certainly Russian with the accent.

He didn’t speak right away—just looked over at her, slowly, like he was still deciding whether she was real or a trick of the low light. Then—

"That depends."

Óscar rested his forearms against the bar, voice smooth and low with the faintest edge of a smile, "Are you part of the entertainment?" he glanced down at her drink and then back up once more, "Or just here to admire the show?"

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@mobscene-starters Event: Fight Club 2025 -Pre Fights

Nadezhda wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the whole ordeal, but there was one thing she was confident about, and that was her skills. The Russian had arrived with her people, moving to the bar to grab herself a drink before returning to them, when she felt a body come up next to hers, twisting her head in their direction.

"Should be an interesting night, da?"

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Nazehda Yuryeva attends Fight Club 2025 Date: Friday April 4, 2025 Escorted by: Herself

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where: streets of haringey when: 15th of december, 2024 who: @vinnievespucci

It was by chance, stepping out into the crips cool breeze that azure hues caught sight of a figure in the shadows. A tingling sensation leaving her in the back of the group of Russians walking forward and she waited, fixated on one spot. Nadezhda led by her gut instinct, that it would be worth her time to rely on her patience.

A few minutes ticked by, rolling her shoulders off the brick walk, the woman crossed the street, heading in their direction. She held an air of confidence, weapons of her choice hidden within, and a desire to protect those that mattered to her.

"Seeing as you have not moved, I believe you might be lost, da?"

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where: vorya when: 10th of decemeber, 2024 who: @maksimkurylenko

It had been a busy month of Nadezhda, that the last time she saw Maksim was the event. It was unlike her to keep this period of time between checking in on those that were family to her.

Heels clicked against the floor, drowned out by the beat of the music pumping through the room, weaving gracefully between the crowd to a section dedicated for them. Nadezhda had the door opened for her by security, finding her guest already sat waiting, glancing out the two way mirror, watching those dancing on the floor.

"And here I thought I would be here first."

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text | @aviv-kasyanenko

Nadya: Dinner, my place, tomorrow.

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The idea of clothing shopping was tedious on its own and the effort behind it exhausting. There were more important matters at hand and yet, here she stood. An outfit required for the holiday dinner.

It was the tenth dress she had pulled off the rack, glanced over, and put back. Nothing appealed to her, ready to move on to the next boutique that two steps forward brough three back at the sound of a scratchy mouselike voice.

Azure hues narrow at the blonde, a French, out alone. "It appears they really do forget their manners." She tuts at the woman.

For: @nadezhdaxyuryeva Location: Random clothing store

Retail therapy was exactly what Ophélie needed, she wasn't the biggest fan of how busy everything would get during the holidays. She didn't always have the time and patience for others, more so when they would spend forever observing on item.

She let out a sign of frustration, she had waiting for the person in front of her to simply step aside in order for her to select the boots she wanted in her size.

"Honestly, if you haven't decided yet, it's likely you don't really want the boots. I'm been patient enough, but could you please move now so I can actually get what I came here for?" she asked, the frustration clearly showing in her voice.

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"Do you really want me to answer that?" Her time around the family, throughout the many years, Nadezhda learned their habits, and quirks, and made it her business to rely on non-verbal language than words that may spill from their lips. "Lower than I expected." Tensions were high for the Russians, all considering. The option to steal away from assigned tentmates made for a better last night; one where she could indulge and not worry about a pillow smothering her in the middle of the night. "I had the big old French Ogre." A nonchalant shrug of her shoulder. "Feel like an upgrade?"

Looking up from the pack in hand, he couldn't top the fly smirk that curled the corner of his lips. "Am I that transparent?" although, he knew it was because Nadez had known him long enough to determine that his habits didn't change often enough to warrant the need to assume otherwise. "Three." but he was glad for the offer, finding himself away from the riff-raff...the cretins that'd found themselves in attendance also. "I've had worse tent partners...you?"

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"Good taste." Her tone carrying a semi-sweet melody to it.

Entertainment had fallen on her lap and she was one not to turn away the opportunity for the time being. Curious if the woman would be there when she returned.

"Pleasure, Valérie." Noting the demeanour change in the Frenchwoman in front of her. "Natasha," no accent laced in her tone. "Let me fetch us that drink."

The bar not too far from where the two were seated, the trip taking less than five minutes, two glasses of white, dry, wine in hand. "For you," she hands one over, taking her place once more.

"Looking forward to the weekend?" The name clicking in her head, realising who she was sharing a tent with.

"White and dry." Her words were as crisp as she hoped the wine would be.

The intensity with which the woman was looking at her had Val's demeanor changing. She remained seated and willing to have a drink but her smile faltered now, the realization dawning on her that she'd picked the wrong seat.

"Thank you...?" Getting a name was the first step in reassessing the situation. "I'm Valérie." No need to include a last name for the moment.

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where: the bar when: a few hours after their encounter who: @benjaminvox

Nadezhda spotted him sat at one of the couches at the bar for those on the rich side. She had promised him a drink, and one to keep her word, she fetched them both a drink.

"Thought you could use some company." She sat down beside him, placing a drink in his hand.