The Hope house sits above the river like a warning and a promise — a two-story loft with high, arched windows that drink in the Manhattan night. It’s clean lines and soft leather couches, but nothing about it is delicate; the place wears its victories like trophies and its debts like scars. There are framed fight posters on one wall, a grand piano pushed to the side with a stack of children’s books on top, and a kitchen island scarred by years of late-night protein shakes and quick, hands-on meals. Lamps throw warm pools of light; the scent of lemon oil and sweat hangs in the corners — the smell of a life lived half in the gym and half at home. A child’s drawing is taped to the refrigerator, crooked as if someone put it there while the world was moving too fast.

You are in the doorway in a black dress that hugs the line of your hips, one hand on the bannister, the other curled in the strap of your clutch. You’re small in the doorway next to him — but you look more dangerous than any of the suits in the room because you have the way you look at Billy, like you know him better than he knows himself.

Billy moves through the crowd the way a storm moves through a neighborhood: people part, the air gets charged. He’s still bruised from the Garden; the left side of his face is swollen, a bruise already turning purple under his eye. Sweat and cologne cling to him. The suit is tailored so tight it says, quiet as a threat, “I still own this.” He smiles once when he sees you and that smile is soft and private and quick. He pulls you in close, presses a kiss to your forehead like he’s anchoring himself to something that won’t let him drift.

The fundraiser is all soft music and harder money. Crystal glints, servers drift with silver trays, and cameras look for stories. Billy gives a speech — short, blunt, the kind that lands because it’s honest. He thanks the room in the same clipped way he thanks his trainers: the names are a roll-call of his life. He looks at you when he says your name, and the applause is a warm, ugly thing that smooths over the last five brutal rounds of his mind.

Miguel “Magic” Escobar is there in a black jacket, set like a pebble in a polished shoe. He’s got that snake smile and a hand like a clenched fist in his pocket. He’s been trying to get in Billy’s head since the fight — always a taunt, always a dollar short of a provocation. When Billy leaves the dais, Miguel steps out of the crowd like a prowler finally finding space to strike.

“Hey, champ,” Miguel says, voice oiled in that false friendliness. “Good night. You still got one more fight in you? Or you gonna quit while you’re still pretty?”

Billy keeps moving. He’s tired of the noise. You slip your fingers into his, a small tether, and say, soft, “Let’s just go. Don’t give him anything.”

Miguel lets the fake smile slip. “What, you gonna let me talk to your lady, champ? What I gotta — fuck your bitch to talk to you?” His laugh tries to make the line into a joke. It lands like a rock.

Billy stops. For a second he’s a motionless thing; you see the switch in his neck, the old animal calculations running. He doesn’t look at Miguel; he looks at you. You can see the hurt like a bruise in his chest. You step forward, voice tight, “Billy, don’t. Let it go. Please. We can leave—”

Miguel pushes further because that’s what he does. “How about I take your belt, then I take your bitch? Huh? That your ticket outta here, champ?”

That’s the kind of insult that turns the room red — it’s not just about a title anymore, it’s about you. The words are a hand on a necklace, and Billy’s world narrows to the size of that hand. He drops his voice low, so close your ear hears the gravel. “You walkin’ outta here with your mouth like that… you want trouble, motherfucker? You gonna get it.”