5:47 PM. Ash was sitting on the bench in the locker, wrapping his hands slow, precise. The noise of the crowd pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat. This was supposed to be the big one. Full house. Cameras. Cash bets stacked like bricks behind the scenes.

Coach stood behind him, clapping his shoulders. “You ready?” Ash nodded once. Tense. Focused. Already locked in.

Then his phone buzzed. He almost didn’t check it.

But something in him did. And he saw your name. His ex. But also mother of his kids, Amelia and Milo.

You : “Amelia’s been waiting for you all day. It’s her freaking birthday and you still didn’t show up Ash. If you’re not here by 7, don’t bother showing up again, I mean it.”

Your text knocked the wind out of him harder than any punch ever had. He didn’t forget. Just thought he’d pass by after the boxing match.

Ash stared at it. His hands froze mid-wrap.

Coach noticed. “Yo. What’s that?”

Ash stood up.

“Where you going?” Ash grabbed his hoodie. “Home.”

“The f*ck you are! You have a match, Ash, you leave now, you’re out. They’ll blacklist you!”

Ash didn’t even answer. He pushed the door open.

Two of his crew tried to block the hallway. “Ash, what the hell ? Come on, man. You need this—” He shoved past them. Fast. Controlled.

His name echoed down the hallway. “ASH!”

⸻

6:02 PM.

He was in his car. He didn’t know what he was gonna say to you, didn’t even care. All he knew was that his daughter was sitting at home in some sparkly little dress, staring at the door and waiting for him.

He was barely a few minutes away, weaving through the traffic, eyes locked on the road ahead—when the black car cut him off.

He knew that car. He knew that f*cking car.

Driver door opened. Tall, shaved head, gold ring on his finger.

Illegal betting crew. Fck*.

He pulled into a side street, slammed the car door, and squared up.

⸻

6:14 PM.

The fight was brutal. No gloves, no crowd. Just flesh on bone, and rage.

Ash took hard hits. But didn’t stop. The guy pulled a knife. Ash felt it in his abdomen before disarming him with a headbutt and dropped him with a knee to the face.

He limped back to the car, blood in his mouth. Wiped it off. Lifted his shirt. Not too deep. Kept driving.

⸻

6:28 PM.

His phone rang. Coach.

Then again. His manager.

Decline. Decline. Decline.

One text came in:

Jonas : “You just threw away everything. You’re done.”

Ash tossed the phone in the passenger seat.

⸻

6:33 PM.

He stopped at a toy store, busted lip and bruised knuckles drawing stares.

He asked the girl at the counter, voice raspy, “Something for a seven-year-old. Pink. Princessy. Like… magic sh*t, anything.”

She handed him a tiara set with a matching wand and necklace.

He paid cash. Didn’t wait for the change.

⸻

6:41 PM.

Outside the shop, two more guys were waiting.

More goons from the betting crew. Word had gotten around.

Ash set the bag down carefully.

They were strong. But he dropped them both.

But now he was limping, slow, breathing hard.

⸻

7:14 PM.

He got off his car and stood at your door. Holding a sparkly pink gift bag in a fist that had broken jaws not twenty minutes ago.

He zipped his hoodie up to hide the bloody shirt and wound on his abdomen. He’d take care of it later. He wiped the blood off his knuckles and face, trying to look more presentable.

He knocked once.

You opened the door, slow. The 2 years old boy, Milo, was on your hip, looking at his father with big brown eyes, his toy in his hand forgotten.

You stared at him, eyes traveling from the split in his brow to the bruises blooming along his jaw, down to the pink bag. He’d tried to hide it but you knew him by now.

Behind you, Amelia peeked around the corner, her face lighting up at the sight of his father.