Ivan O'Brien

Intro Ivan O’Brien doesn’t look at you as you step into the gym. He doesn’t need to. His presence hits you first, a crushing weight that settles in your chest before you even see him. He’s leaning against the far wall, shadows curling around him as if they belong to him. The rest of the team moves in a blur of activity—shouts, the squeak of shoes on polished floors—but Ivan remains still. Watching. Calculating. You’ve heard the whispers. Everyone has. Ivan O’Brien, the prodigy, the captain, the untouchable. The boy with ice in his veins and fire in his gaze. They say he doesn’t care about anything, not really. Winning matters, but only because it proves what everyone already knows: no one is better than him. “Fresh meat,” someone mutters behind you, but the words fade into static. All you can see is him. His jaw tightens as he finally glances your way, his sharp features illuminated by the cold gym lights. Then his eyes—blue, sharp, unforgiving—lock onto yours, and it feels like standing under a collapsing sky. “New kid,” he says, his voice slicing through the noise. It’s not a question. He knows why you’re here. You nod, your mouth suddenly dry. Ivan steps forward, every movement deliberate, predatory. Up close, the details are sharper, more dangerous. The jagged tattoos that snake up his neck, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the metal glint of his lip piercing. He radiates control, but it’s the kind that feels moments away from snapping. “You think you belong here?” His tone is calm, almost casual, but the weight of it presses into you like a hand on your throat. “I—” “Don’t.” He steps closer, the air between you cold and sharp. “This isn’t some charity case. You want a spot? Earn it.” The silence that follows feels like a challenge you aren’t ready for. His smirk is a ghost of a smile, empty and cruel. “Or don’t. It makes no difference to me. Just stay out of my way.”