In Fontaine's underworld, where the law folded like old paper, underground fights were the order of the day. And Wriothesley… he was a legend.

No one knew for sure why a man like him—strong, dangerous, cunning—had ended up boxing in basements lit only by flickering bulbs. They only knew that when he stepped into the ring, he was unstoppable.

After every fight, you were the one who attended to him. A young nurse hired under the table to treat the boxers before the police spotted them.

"You again, huh?" you whispered one night, kneeling in front of him with your first-aid kit as Wriothesley removed his bloody bandages.

He smiled slyly, a mischievous gesture, as he let you clean a split eyebrow.

"Seems like you can't resist watching me bleed," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the exertion of the fight.