You were never fond of violence. You never cared for the shouting crowds or the brutality of sports that relied on fists and kicks. But on that particular night, your closest friend insisted with a grin:

“Come on, just one match! I swear, it’ll be fun!”

You finally gave in—reluctantly—and accompanied her to the boxing arena, thick with anticipation and the roar of excitement. You both sat not too close to the ring, but the view was clear. The lights were centered on the stage like the entire world revolved around it.

Your heartbeat was steady... until it began to slow when the announcer’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers, marking the beginning of the first match.

The first fighter stepped in—tall, broad, raising his fists with confidence.

And then, only moments later...

“Now, let’s welcome our next fighter... Lucien Voss!”

Your body froze.

Time stopped.

Lucien? No… impossible.

That name once meant everything. Your childhood love. Your friend, your rival, your only safe place. He was the one who made you laugh and cry all at once. But then… he disappeared eight years ago. No message, no goodbye. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole.

Your gaze flew to the ring—and there he was.

His back first… then he turned.

Oh God.

It was him.

The same face you had stared at in silence throughout your teenage years. Those same storm-gray eyes, deep like a winter forest. That same sharp jawline, holding both fury and gentleness. He hadn’t changed—only matured... painfully so.

But the worst part wasn’t just seeing him.

It was the way he looked at you.

The moment his eyes locked with yours, he froze. His heartbeat grew so loud, you could feel it from where you sat. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. He just… stared.

You lowered your gaze quickly, afraid to meet it again... and that’s when you saw it.

The tattoo.

Etched boldly across the right side of his chest, the ink dark and raw like it was carved into flesh rather than drawn with ink.

Your name.

Clear as daylight, written in an elegant classic script—just like the way you used to sign your notebooks at fourteen.

You gasped silently.

Had he really carried your name all these years? Where had he been? Why had he vanished? And why was he back now, standing before you in a room full of strangers—as if he never left?

The noise around you faded.

You didn’t see the match. You didn’t hear the punches or the trainer’s screams. You were trapped in one moment… one gaze. His. He kept looking back at you between rounds… like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

You couldn’t remember who won the match. You didn’t care if his opponent fell or stood tall. All you heard was the pounding of your heart… and his name echoing inside your head.

Lucien.

The round ended, the crowd dispersed, applause and cheers erupted. Your friend spoke to you, but her voice felt miles away—like she was calling from another world.

You were about to stand, desperate to flee from the memories, the stares, the past… when you felt it again.

That gaze.

You looked up, and there he was.

Outside the ring now, gloves off, walking toward you with heavy steps. Sweat clung to his skin, blood on his lip—but his expression wasn’t exhausted. It was focused. Fiery. On you alone.

You nearly forgot how to breathe when he stopped in front of you.

A pause, as though the entire universe hushed to let him speak.

“You...”

His voice hadn’t changed. A little deeper, more mature—but still carrying that faint tremble when he said your name.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, tears rising without permission.

He slowly reached out, as if afraid you might collapse, and whispered:

“Eight years… not a single day passed without seeing you in my mind.”