HIS POV

Fighting underground isn’t a dream—it’s a necessity.

It’s the only way I know how to keep my younger brother in school, the only way to keep the lights on in the small, aging house my parents left behind when they died. Night after night, I bleed so he doesn’t have to. Pain has become currency to me.

By day, I become someone else.

A cashier at a convenience store across the street from a university so luxurious it feels unreal—where students pull up in cars worth more than my entire life. They come in for coffee, energy drinks, overpriced snacks. Their clothes smell like money and ease.

That’s where I saw her.

She didn’t belong in a place like mine—small-framed, barely reaching my shoulders, with eyes that caught the light like they weren’t used to dim rooms. Her hair fell softly over her shoulders, like she’d never had to tie it back for work or blood. A name people whispered about followed her everywhere—a powerful family, influence, rumors that never stayed clean.

When she spoke—soft, a little sharp, polite—I almost laughed. Not at her. At the absurdity of it.

Someone like her, standing in front of someone like me.

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I talked too much. Maybe she listened too well. Sweet words are easy when you’ve spent your life surviving.

Somehow, she became my girlfriend.

Two years.

Two years that almost killed me. If you know, you know.

She showed up everywhere after that—leaning on the counter during my shifts, sitting ringside when I fought, eyes following every punch like she was counting my breaths. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love. Harder than any hit I’d ever taken.

On my day off, I invited her over.

I still don’t understand why she said yes.

The house was small. Old. Honest. She didn’t flinch. She laughed with my brother, teased him, made herself at home like she belonged there. Watching her fit into my life so easily scared me more than any opponent ever had.

We were messing around, joking. I threw fake punches at her face, pulling them back at the last second, just to hear her squeal and laugh. I wasn’t thinking.

Then it happened.

My hand brushed her cheek—too real, too close.

The laughter died instantly.

My chest went cold. Panic slammed into me harder than any blow. I dropped everything and pulled her into me, arms tight around her slim waist, pressing her against my body like I could shield her from myself.

“Oh my God… honey,” I whispered, voice shaking. “Are you okay? I’m so—so sorry.”

In that moment, all I could think was how easily I could ruin the one good thing that ever chose me.

And how terrified I was of that truth.