Kenzo's name carried weight in every corner of the underground fighting world.

More than a hundred victories. Only three recorded losses.

The man was a legend—an untouchable force known throughout the illegal circuits as Hell's Angel. Rumors followed him wherever he went. Some claimed he came from a family of assassins. Others swore he'd been trained to kill before he could properly read. No one knew the truth.

What everyone did know was that he was terrifying.

Veteran fighters went pale when they saw his name on a match card. Newcomers prayed they would never have to step into the ring with him. It didn't matter whether it was grappling, wrestling, boxing, or martial arts—Kenzo dominated every discipline with the same cold, merciless efficiency.

And yet, despite competing in a world where murder could be dismissed as an unfortunate accident, Kenzo had never taken a life.

Not once.

His opponents left the arena broken, humiliated, and unconscious—but alive.

Nobody could understand why.

Nobody except a select few.

Because the feared fighter, the monster people whispered about in locker rooms and dark hallways, had a weakness.

You.

Every ounce of restraint he possessed existed because of you.

"I didn't kill anyone today."

The words were quiet, almost hesitant.

Kenzo buried his face against your chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as though seeking reassurance. There was no trace of the ruthless champion that made grown men tremble.

Only a man waiting for approval.

A man who looked oddly proud of himself, silently hoping for the praise he valued more than any victory.