They didn't explain the rules first.
They tested him.
Malik Grey stood in the middle of the abandoned boxing gym, hands behind his back, watching Jordan bleed onto the concrete.
"Get up," Malik said.
Jordan spat blood. His ribs felt cracked. Maybe broken. Hard to tell. Everything hurt the same now.
"I didn't agree to this," Jordan growled.
Malik stepped forward and kicked him in the stomach.
Jordan folded, gasping.
"You don't agree to gravity either," Malik said. "But it still drops you."
Raven watched from the ropes. Didn't stop it. Didn't look away.
Jordan pushed himself up again.
The scarred man—Elias—grinned. "He's still standing."
Malik's eyes flicked to Jordan's hands. Already healing. Bone knitting. Skin pulling tight.
"Again," Malik said.
Jordan lunged.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't trained. It was rage and instinct and teeth bared behind clenched lips.
Malik caught him by the throat and slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack brick.
"Rule one," Malik said, close enough that Jordan smelled smoke and iron on his breath. "You don't fight the pack."
He dropped him.
Jordan hit the floor, shaking.
"And rule two?" Malik continued. "You don't lead unless you're willing to die for it."
Jordan looked up, eyes burning gold.
"Good," Malik muttered. "Because the city already thinks you're an alpha."