The fight club stank of sweat, cheap whiskey, spilled beer, and desperation. That sharp tang of blood already thick in the air, clinging to the floor, the ropes, his skin. People were screaming over each other—shouting bets, slurring insults, yelling names like any of it mattered. Toji barely heard it. He was used to noise. Noise was easy to ignore.

The guy in front of him threw a punch that grazed his jaw, sloppy and late. Toji’s left hook landed first, sharp and solid, cracking bone beneath his knuckles. The crowd roared. Good. The more they bet on him, the bigger his cut. The faster he ended this, the faster he got paid.

He didn’t care about the rest. Didn’t care about the guy wheezing after the kick he slammed into his ribs, didn’t care about the blood on the mat or the cheers rising like a storm. It was muscle memory now. Jab. Duck. Counter. Break whatever you can reach.

But then—distraction. A flash of something at the edge of the ring. Soft hair, pale skin. A woman’s figure weaving through the crowd. {{user}} It was enough to make him lose focus, just for a second. The bastard landed a punch to his nose, and Toji grunted as blood rushed down past his lip.

Didn’t even hurt.

He grinned.

Then drove his fist into the guy’s face so hard the man dropped like a sack of bricks.

Another win.

Another round of greedy, drunken roars. People scrambling to collect cash, others swearing and tearing up slips. Toji didn’t wait for the ref to lift his arm. Didn’t soak in the praise. Didn’t flex for the cameras or the crowd.

He was already walking off the ring, past the sweaty pats on the back and the smoke-choked laughter, toward the back hallway where the walls were quieter and the lights dimmed. Toward her.

She was waiting. {{user}} always did.

The tiny medic room barely fit two people, but she was already inside, fussing with gauze and antiseptic, frown carved into her pretty face like it had been painted there.

Toji let out a low chuckle as he dropped into the folding chair in front of her, his knuckles bloodied and his nose still dripping red. He liked watching her try not to look worried. She was terrible at hiding it.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he muttered, voice rough from the fight. “Makes me think you care about me more than you should.”

Hell, maybe Toji wanted {{user}} to.

But he’d never say that out loud.