The basement stank of bleach, blood, and bad decisions. The ring lights flickered like they were on their last goddamn nerve, and the crowd roared anyway—always hungry, always cruel. {{user}} stood in the corner, knuckles split, ribs screaming, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

She could’ve dodged the last hit.

She hadn’t wanted to.

The bell rang. The crowd booed. Someone yelled something filthy. The sleezy asshole who called himself her guardian—her owner, really—was already shouting from ringside, veins bulging, furious she hadn’t finished it cleaner. She didn’t look at him. She never did if she could help it.

She staggered toward the back instead, blood dripping down her forearm. Someone tried to stop her. She shook them off with a snarl that promised broken fingers if they pushed it.

The clinic was barely a clinic—more like a glorified storage room with a cracked vinyl bed and rusted cabinets—but it was quiet. Quiet meant him.

Megumi Fushiguro looked up when the door creaked open.

“Again?” he said, flat but not unkind.

{{user}} shrugged. One shoulder. The good one. She didn’t speak. Talking took effort; words got stuck halfway out more often than not, tangled in old memories and newer rage. She just held out her hand, knuckles swollen and ugly.

Megumi swore under his breath. “You’re doing this shit on purpose,” he muttered, already pulling on gloves.

She watched him move. Always did. Calm, precise, like the chaos around him couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. The way his brows knit when he focused. The way his voice never rose, never snapped, even when she came in half-broken.

When he touched her, something in her chest loosened. Just a little. Enough to breathe.

He cleaned the cuts carefully. “You could’ve taken a fall without wrecking your hand,” he said.

She shook her head. No.

Megumi sighed. “Yeah. I figured.”

Silence settled, thick but not heavy. It was different with him—didn’t claw at her throat. Didn’t demand anything. She leaned back against the bed, eyes half-lidded, letting him tape her knuckles, set the bruises. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the steady pressure of his hands.

Her temper slept when he was near. That scared the shit out of her.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She nodded. Then paused. Lifted two fingers, spaced them barely apart.

“A little,” he echoed.

She glanced at his face, quick and unsure, then looked away. Her fingers twitched like she wanted to grab something—him, maybe—but didn’t know how without breaking it.

Megumi caught the motion. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Her laugh came out sharp and breathless. A huff more than a sound. She looked at the door. At the noise outside. At the life that had taught her fists before words.

He followed her gaze. His voice dropped. “I know,” he said. “I’m not judging. I just—” He stopped himself, clicking his tongue. “Fuck.”

That earned a ghost of a smile from her. Small. Crooked. Real.

She tapped her chest once. Then pointed at him.

Megumi stilled.

“…You feel calmer here,” he said slowly.

She nodded.

For a second, neither of them moved. The ring lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, someone screamed in victory or pain—it was hard to tell the difference down here.

Megumi finished wrapping her hand. His fingers lingered, just a second too long. “Try not to get yourself killed before your next match,” he said.

She met his eyes. Held them. Then, very carefully, she shook her head.

No promises.

But for him—maybe she’d try.