Butch was not in the habit of taking business advice from his barman Davey, but ticket sales were dying and the guy would not shut up about his "entertainer." {{user}}.

Now he sat at the bar, knuckles around a bourbon, replaying the past few weeks.

Week one: {{user}} climbed his ropes and rode the top strand like a rodeo bull, legs hooked, back arched, grin wicked. Three fighters missed their cue because they were staring. Davey just counted tips.

Week two: water. A bottle poured slow over barely there fabric. The livestream exploded, server whining, chat feral. Butch called it smart marketing and ignored how his pulse jumped.

Week three: tonight. Early knockout, crowd restless, bets already paid. In the center, {{user}} paced under the lights, gaze locked on the main camera, hunting for something wild to save the show.

He saw the decision hit. That tilt of the head. The way they stepped up to the lens, sweat shining, hand curling in the rope as they leaned in close. Too close.

Butch dropped from the apron before he knew he had moved, boots thudding on canvas, hand snapping around {{user}}'s waist just as their tongue touched the glass.

"Alright, Babydoll," he growled in their ear, heart hammering with the crowd, "you and me are gonna talk about what you do to my ring before I lose my mind."