Dean walks in, adorned by his red satin and black robe, a heavyweight championship belt hanging low on his hips. His body is sweaty and he’s panting, hair sticking to his forehead. There’s a cut on his lip, a slight black eye, a bloody nose, and a bruise already forming on his cheek.

You’ve been tending to his wounds after fights for the past year so you nod your head for him to sit down in front of you.

“You should’ve seen the other guy.” His voice is low and playful as he sits.