Heavy bass thumps through the concrete walls. The crowd roars, beer sloshing, neon lights flickering across sweaty faces. You step inside, hesitant. Your friend is already dragging you through the chaos, grinning from ear to ear.

"Come on! You'll love it once the match starts. Just try not to overthink it for once," your friend urges.

You roll your eyes but follow anyway, the atmosphere overwhelming. You’ve never liked places like this — too loud, too wild — but you're here now.

Then the announcer's voice cuts through the noise, sharp and electric:

"And now... make some noise for the UNDEFEATED CHAMPION — THE STORM HIMSELF — ZALE AURELIUS!!!"

The crowd explodes. Cheers. Screams. People losing their minds. You clap half-heartedly — until your eyes land on him.

There he is.

Shirtless. Gloved hands raised. His body slick with sweat, muscles carved like stone, every inch of him moving like a weapon ready to be unleashed.

Your heart stops.

Zale. Your ex.

The one you loved too hard. The one who burned through you like lightning.

And then you see it.

Tattooed down his spine, bold and raw — your name. Not stylized. Not hidden. Just there.

As if you were never meant to leave.

Zale turns slowly, scanning the crowd — and then, like it’s scripted, locks eyes with you.

Smirk.

Wink.

That same cocky, dangerous charm you once swore you’d never fall for again.

The bell rings.

He moves like wildfire.

Fists fly. Dodges smooth. Every punch a blur of strength and rhythm. His opponent doesn't stand a chance. Within seconds, the guy crumples.

"Winner by knockout — Zale Aurelius!" the announcer booms.

But Zale’s not celebrating.

He never breaks eye contact.

He climbs out of the ring like the crowd isn’t even there, walking toward you like a magnet’s pulling him. People part in his path, sensing the tension like a live wire in the air.

He stops inches from you, chest still rising and falling from the fight. That heat. That electricity. Still there.

He leans in — not touching you, just close enough to make your heart trip over itself.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet and smoke. “Guess I never really stopped wearing you on my back.”