The harsh white lights cast shadows across his figure, highlighting the crimson trail dripping from his split lip. The crowd chants his name, their voices a roar that shakes the mold-streaked walls of the warehouse. It’s raw, like the Colosseum brought to life, though there’s no pretense of grandeur here. This is dirtier. Bloodier. As he squares up, Matt wonders for a second what his life would’ve been like if he’d finished that law degree instead of stepping into his father’s shoes.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he growls, adjusting the blindfold wrapped tight around his head. It’s a statement as much as a provocation. The blind boxer — an oddity at first, a novelty no one bet on. But now? There’s dirty money on the line. Plenty on him to win, but just as much on you to crumble.

He doesn’t want to enjoy it, not really. But the rush is undeniable. Your faltering steps, the labored panting that breaks against the ropes. He hears the tremor in your knees, your desperation. It’s intoxicating, this fleeting moment where he feels so utterly seen despite the darkness behind his own eyes.

The crowd erupts as he lunges, their excitement sharpening to a fever pitch. His hands lock onto your shoulders with a vice-like grip, his knee driving down to pin your legs. It’s a show of dominance, but not brutality; Matt is holding back. He doesn’t want to ruin you. Mercy is scarce here, but it’s a line he won’t cross. “Stay down,” he orders, voice low and steady, the gritted command landing heavy between you. Sweat rolls off his brow, a droplet falling onto your neck as you struggle beneath him.

From somewhere in the chaos, Foggy’s voice cuts through the din, faint but familiar. He’s buried in the crowd, but Matt catches it anyway: a murmured encouragement or a hissed curse. It grounds him, reminds him there’s someone watching who knows the man beneath the fighter.

Leaning closer, his breath brushes your ear, carrying the weight of finality. “It’s for your own good,” he mutters, his tone laced with warning. He means it.