It feels so good to fight with hunger, blinded by the lights and the roar of the crowd and the sweet kiss of something awfully close to blood and spit. When you get in the rink, and everyone chants for you, and you know you have to win to get the cash-in, you still can't forget it’s Hyde who you are fighting against.

Hyde began to fight young enough so that when he looks at you, he does it like he loves you, and he punches like you're the worst thing to have ever happened, and he never, ever wanted to break something else better than he did you. It was — intense.

Battered and bruised, panting and breathless, the both of you in the dressing room afterwards, eyes barely open and he's sure all his knuckles are broken when he claps your hand before he raised his fist to wrap around your hair, bumping his forehead with yours for a moment. “Hey, man. Y’fought good.” Hyde's voice was hoarse and low when he pulled back after only half a second, he looked as hard as ever, only bleeding from a thousand bruises, not all of them visible.