You and Gaz had never gotten along in school. Rivalry wasn’t a strong enough word—you hated each other. Always competing, always at each other’s throats.

You lived for boxing. He lived to tear you down. Too fragile. Too slow. You’ll never make it. He never let you forget it.

Then, one day, you were gone. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just gone.

But you never quit. You trained harder, pushed further, honed every ounce of strength you had. Years later, you earned a reputation—a name whispered in every underground ring: White Death. Ruthless. Unrelenting. Your mask hid your face, but your fists spoke for you.

Tonight was no different. Another fight. Another nameless opponent. Both masked. Both relentless. Each strike fueled by instinct, precision, and raw brutality.

Until you weren’t fast enough.

A misstep. A second too slow. Your opponent surged forward, yanking your mask clean off, you grab into his as you stumble.

The world seemed to stop.

You hit the mat, breath ragged, bruised lip stinging as you lifted your gaze.

And there he was.

Gaz.

Your chest heaved as recognition flickered across his face. The same disbelief. The same shock.

The crowd went silent, but neither of you moved.

Just you and him. Face to face. No more masks. No more hiding. Just unfinished business.