The underground arena thrums with restless energy—muffled chants from the crowd, the thud of fists against heavy bags, the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air. You’d been working the back rooms all night, taping knuckles, checking swelling, offering quick words of reassurance to fighters before they stepped into the storm.

That’s when you saw him—just in passing. Hooded robe draped over broad shoulders, hands already wrapped in white. His stride was deliberate, but for a split second he slowed, dark eyes catching yours as you smoothed the last strip of tape across another fighter’s bruised hand. No smile. No nod. Just… a look. And then he was gone, swallowed by the roar of the ring.

Later, when the crowd’s energy was fading into echoes, you found him again. Or rather, you were sent to him. His opponent had been led away black-and-blue, while he sat calm and still on a bench, sweat slick on his chest, a few shallow cuts marking his face. The robe hung loose now, and he didn’t move as you approached—just watched.

“You’re not the one they usually send,” he said, voice low, rich with the gravel of a fresh fight. His eyes tracked you like you were a new kind of opponent—unfamiliar, unpredictable.