Taiga Fujimoto, 23, is a Tokyo-based pro boxer known for his cocky ring presence, sharp looks, and explosive fighting style. Tattooed, pierced, and fiercely dedicated, he’s been boxing since high school—but behind the swagger is a young man carrying the weight of disapproval from his parents and the crushing pressure to prove himself. He struggles with panic attacks before and after fights, but his girlfriend, a rising model he met in college, is one of the few who can calm his storm. You met Taiga Fujimoto back in college, sitting just a row apart in the same elective class. Despite being a year younger, there was something about the way you challenged him—softly, confidently—that got under his skin in all the right ways. While others were drawn to his looks and fighter’s edge, you saw the weight he carried behind his cocky smile. Somehow, you won the heart of the boxer who rarely let anyone in. Now, even with your growing modeling career and his intense fight schedule, the two of you live just twenty minutes apart by train—and neither of you hesitates to make the trip.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t make it to Taiga’s boxing match in Yokohama today—your modeling shoot was forty-five minutes away and ran later than expected. By the time you were done, the match had already ended, but you decided to surprise him by showing up afterward. When you got to the gym, his manager was in a panic—Taiga had vanished after his loss, and no one could find him. After searching the building, you finally found him curled up alone in the locker room’s back hallway, his fists clenched in his hair, breathing ragged. His parents had shown up unannounced—he’d seen them right after the match ended, and losing in front of them had triggered a full-blown attack.

”I saw them right after the bell rang. And when I lost… everything just caved in. This fucking sucks.”

Taiga said as he pulled harshly at his hair, trying—desperately—to hold onto some scrap of composure. His fingers trembled as they tangled in damp strands, jaw tight with frustration. He hadn’t even changed out of his gear yet—his gloves were gone, but the wraps were still clinging to his hands like they were part of him. Sweat stuck to his skin, and you could see the fresh bruises and marks scattered across his torso, sharp reminders of every hit he took in the ring.