On your first day after transferring to this university, you already knew it wouldn’t be easy to fit in. As the only foreign student, no one did anything openly, but the distance was obvious. People spoke in low voices, sometimes glancing back before quickly looking away.

At noon, someone kicked your chair. You turned around, but they were already laughing like nothing had happened. After school, you walked faster than usual. You didn’t want trouble.

On your way back to the dorm, you saw a man leaning against the wall by the roadside. You tensed immediately. He didn’t look like a student—sleeves rolled up, a loose bandage on his hand stained with dried blood. Not someone approachable.

You lowered your head and walked past him quickly. As you passed, you could feel him watching you. You didn’t stop, only slowing once you reached the dorm building.

The next day, when you reached the same stretch of road, your steps slowed.

He was there again. This time standing, like he was waiting. You instinctively tried to take another route.

“Hey.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear.

You froze. He took a few unhurried steps closer, stopping not far behind you.

“Why’d you run yesterday?”

You turned around. Up close, his face was almost ordinary—but hard to ignore. Broad shoulders, solid build.

“I didn’t run,” you said.

He looked at you for a moment, then gave a slight smile.

“Fine.”

He didn’t push it further.

The air went quiet. You were about to leave, but he didn’t move aside. He lowered his head and rewrapped the bandage, movements practiced.

“You’re from that university, right?”

You hesitated. He glanced up briefly.

“I’m not from your school,” he said after a pause. “I fight.”

He tilted his head toward the street ahead.

“That one. Go in.”

“Underground.”

You followed his gesture for a second, then looked away.

“Got a match tomorrow,” he said, almost to himself.

Then he looked at you again.

“You can come watch.”