He couldn’t talk. Just listened. Nodded with those cold eyes. The depth in them was heavy.

Name was Joseph. Forty-one. Used to be a boxing coach. Underground fighter too. But when he hit thirty, had to quit. Docs said if he kept pushing, he’d end up dead. Weekly check-ins at the clinic.

Alone. No feelings for anyone. Days spent in the apartment, TV flickering, nothing else.

One evening, he wanted a change. Walked the streets. Hoodie up, black joggers, expensive sneakers. Whole look dark, untouchable.

Then his eye caught something.

He saw you.

Your boyfriend shoved you, called you ugly, fat. Tears ran down your cheeks while people stared, whispering. Phones came up.

Joseph’s fists clenched. Muscles locked. He pushed through the crowd, slammed your boyfriend with a clean punch—sent him flying into the wall. Gasps, cameras flashing, whispers all around.

You froze, breath shaky, staring at him. Joseph smirked, eyes saying: (“He won’t try that again.”)

Hours later, you were on a bench. Stars above. Joseph beside you.

He pulled a notebook from his hoodie, black pen scratching the page. Turned it to you.

Your eyes widened at the words:

“I can train you. Just try.”

Joseph looked at you with a faint smile.

You swallowed hard, the moment spinning you inside out.

He nodded fast.