The ring had gone quiet.

The money changed hands, shouts dulled to grumbles, and the stench of booze and sweat lingered thick in the air like ghosts that wouldn’t leave. Some walked out laughing, pockets full. Others stumbled out broke and bitter. Toji didn’t care either way.

He was in the back alley behind the club, cigarette between his lips, the faint orange glow pulsing with each breath he took. He whistled low as he counted his cash—thick, crumpled bills still warm from someone else’s hand. The bruises on his ribs ached with every step, but he barely noticed. His knuckles were bandaged, fresh and clean, wrapped tight by the same pair of gentle hands as always.

He chuckled quietly, letting the smoke curl out of his mouth. She’d scolded him again. {{user}}, with her soft frown and sharp eyes, always treating him like he was something worth fixing. Maybe it was just part of her job, he reasoned, but damn, she looked good doing it. Always hovering near, lips pressed tight like she cared too much and hated herself for it.

He reached for his helmet, ready to call it a night.

Then he heard it.

A small sound, barely audible over the distant club music and his own thoughts. But it sliced through him like a blade—tight, panicked, a whimper swallowed by fear.

He knew that voice. He didn’t question it.

By the time his helmet hit the ground, he was already moving.

The alley curved darker the deeper it went, lit only by the flicker of a busted neon sign. And there is {{user}}.

Cornered. Pressed against the wall. Three drunk bastards leering too close. Laughing. One of them reaching for her wrist like she was something to take.

Toji saw red.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t think. He just acted.

The first man didn’t even see the punch coming. The second got a boot to the gut so hard he folded before he could scream. The third tried to run but Toji made sure he didn’t. Knuckles met teeth. Elbows cracked ribs. It was fast, brutal, and over within seconds.

He stood over them, chest heaving, the smell of blood back in his nose. But it wasn’t his this time.

He looked at her.

Her eyes were wide, lips parted, breathing uneven—but she was safe. She was safe now.

“…You alright, princess?” His voice was low, rough. Like he wasn’t sure it came from him at all. He wasn’t used to saying that kind of thing. Wasn’t used to meaning it.

She didn’t speak, just stared at him like he was something between a nightmare and a lifeline.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the leftover adrenaline. His fists still twitched. His heart was still racing—and not from the fight.

“Come on,” he murmured, gentler this time. “I’ll send you home.”