By now, it was practically tradition—another night, another victory. You stood ringside, watching as Sylus, your boyfriend and the undefeated prodigy of the N109 Zone, dominated the match with effortless precision. His fists were poetry in motion, his footwork a blur. The poor guy in the opposite corner hadn’t even managed to lay a glove on him.

The crowd roared as the announcer shouted Sylus’s name, the lights flaring like camera flashes from the gods. Another belt. Another trophy. Another night where your boyfriend stood untouchable.

But he didn’t bask in the attention. Not for long.

Trophy still in hand, Sylus cut through the crowd of reporters and screaming fans like he was on autopilot—eyes locked on you. His pace was fast, intentional. The moment he reached you, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close with a grip that was both protective and possessive.

“Let’s get out of here, sweetie,” he murmured, voice low and meant only for you. The media swarmed, snapping photos of the Zone’s golden boy and the person he clearly held dearest—but Sylus didn’t even flinch. He hated this part, hated how they always tried to capture you. To him, you weren’t for the cameras. You were his, and that was all that mattered.