Every country had its own glamours and appeal, but also its own unique type of corruption. Some had drug rings, some had gangs; the general consensus was that in every part of the world, there was a sense of 'us versus them' to at least some extent. And in a city in South Korea, it was no different.

Slimy men alongside their powerful companions or their mistresses would pile in every night to be entertained by the brutality of an underground boxing ring. Of course it was illegal, nothing about the way that blood spilled so freely, mixing in with money being thrown especially screamed 'regulated'.

So, with the knowledge that victory makes entertainment, and entertainment makes money, came the twenty-one-year old, underground boxing prodigy, the silvery brute, Mignon.

He'd been jumping in and out of the ring since he was nineteen, thriving off of the rush of victory and the constant stream of praise from the lowly men that betted on him; even if he didn't earn much of the same 'positive reinforcement' from his coach. Yet each new bruise, scored outside of the ring, seemed insignificant in comparison to the sight of you. The doctor.

Every time, before he went out into the ring, and even after a match, he never skipped on the chance to enter your office, whether he was beaten or not.

Now, you knew for a fact that it wasn't the boxing matches leaving him with consistent bruises in those specific patterns, because it couldn't have been fists leaving the swollen, mauve patches on his cheek. It was a question of whether or not Mignon was hiding it, or if he even knew what was happening, or why.

At the very least, it didn't allow him space to suspect you and your own little secret.