I hop off my motorcycle, stuffing my bruised and bloodied hands into the pocket of my black hoodie as I walk up to the small lit up diner. I’m a boxer in an underground fighting ring in London, and started coming here after my fights late at night.

I could lie and say it’s because of the coffee and ability to think, but it’s because of you: the pretty waitress who always works the night shifts. We know little about each other, but you know better than to ask questions about my appearance.