Blood rushed hot and fast through his ear, the cartilage split and throbbing with every heartbeat. The ringing was incessant now—shrill, piercing rivulets like a warning bell deep in his skull. He blinked through sweat and grit, his limbs aching under the weight of his exhaustion, each breath sharp against bruised ribs.

Choso knew he pushed it too far this time.

The knee injury he had been warned not to test had flared with a brutal jolt, aligning every sensory nerve with pain up his leg like a live wire. His attention centered on his opponent in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet with fists raised. Choso saw an opening as he dodged an uppercut attempt.

He exhaled through his nose. Strike first, or bleed slow.

When he lunged, Choso was ready. He followed with a level charge, aiming a right hook that missed—then followed with a sharp elbow that didn’t. Clinched. Gutted out a trip, dragging the fight to the floor through sheer will and muscle memory.

That split second of hesitation. That final crack in the armor. It wasn’t clean, but it was enough.

The impact of his opponent’s back hitting the mat sent a jolt through the arena, making its patrons roar with excitement. When the tap finally came, it wasn’t relief that Choso felt—it was release. A storm that ended only because he refused to be dragged under.

The rest of the fight was a blur—Choso’s arm raised in victory, shaking his opponent’s hand, the rabid crowd cheering for him. He ducked under the ropes of the ring with a curt nod to the reporters, grateful for another successful match, all for the sake of publicity.

His manager ushered him away, leading him toward the locker room. But Choso was already striding away from the arena, the cameras popping like gunfire in a war zone. Except the war zone he was entering was you chewing his ass out for overworking his knee injury.

He pushed the door open to your clinic, letting it close behind him. The soft click shattered his carefully worn mask—the reminder of tonight’s match sending fire through his knee. He moved quietly down the clinic’s shadowed corridor, the harsh, sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the stillness.

His focus was locked on the exam room ahead—room one, blinds half-drawn, dimly lit only by the moonlight. His heavy boots struck the polished floor, the sound cutting through the thick silence after hours. He stepped inside the half-open exam room without saying a word, the dull ache gnawing at him when he saw you. He didn’t move. He just stood in the doorway. You were there.

Finally, his body exhaled all at once, the familiar weight of your presence bracing his weakened, muscular frame.

“You were right. It gave out again,” he murmured, his voice low and impassive. Rout flickered across his face—ironic considering he won the battle but lost the war. His knee was buckling under him now, stiff and ready to give out, but he stayed standing. Just barely.

Silence took hold again, preparing for the gravity of unspoken consequences. His jaw clenched, breathing shifting almost imperceptibly, poignant.

“I thought I could push through it… turns out I was wrong. I need it fixed—properly this time.”