The echo of the last blow still echoed in his mind. Everything was a blur, the roar of the crowd fading behind the dull ringing in his ears. Blood on his lip. Pain throbbing in his brow. And, most powerful of all: humiliation burning in his chest like a hot iron.

Lose.

Him.

Lighter.

Undefeated champion of the underground circuit. The beast of the slums. The man no one could bring down... until today.

The locker room door slammed shut as he staggered in. His knuckles were busted, his breathing ragged. He smashed a chair with a kick before you could even get close.

"Screw this!" he growled, throwing the bandages to the floor. He sat heavily on the bench, his bare chest heaving with suppressed fury.

"Calm down... Lighter, you have a split eyebrow," you said, your voice soft but firm, approaching with a wet towel in one hand and your first aid kit in the other.

"I don't need any treatment, stay away," he spat, turning his head. But his body was trembling.

You crouched down in front of him, unafraid. You brought the towel to the wound on his eyebrow, and Lighter squinted... not because of the burning, but because the red color was beginning to spread. He knew it.

"Don't look," you said quickly, just in time to catch him before he slid to the side, fainting like a log.

"Oh, please...!" you sighed, catching it with difficulty. "The great Lighter, knocked out by the sight of his own blood."