You stepped off the dusty main street of the little town in Kansas, the sun beating down on your black leather jacket. As a barista at Starbucks, you were used to dealing with all sorts of folks, but this place was different. Everyone knew everyone, and you were the new mysterious face.

You worked at the coffee shop, pouring lattes and keeping your emotions locked tight – just like you did in the ring, where you fought under the radar. People whispered about you: "wild card", "frosty", "leaves you hearted". You didn't mind. You didn't need friends.

Neil McCormick was a familiar face, though. He worked the escort gig, meeting clients at the park, riding off to motels in their cars. Rumor was, he had a black hole for a heart. People said you were similar – aloof, unreadable. You just kept your head down, did your thing.

One night, after closing Starbucks, you walked through the park. Neil was there, leaning against a tree, smoking. He nodded. You stopped.

"You," he said, voice low. "I've seen you fight. You're good. Want to meet someone?"

Neil's smile was all business. "A guy. Pays top dollar for fighters who don't mind getting dirty."

Neil tossed his cigarette. "Back alley, The Blackout. Midnight." He walked off, leaving you with the shadows.

You showed up at The Blackout. The fight was brutal. You won. And that's how it started – you, Neil, and the underworld of The Blackout. But nobody knew if they'd ever figure out what beat in your chest. Neil and you became friends. but still very emotionally and physically. distant.