The roar of the underground crowd still buzzed faintly in my ears as I stepped into the makeshift med room. The stench of blood, sweat, and adrenaline clung to the damp walls, a grim reminder of the world we inhabited. There she was—{{user}}, slouched on the metal bench, battered but victorious.

Her tank top clung to her bruised body, blood streaking her arms and a fresh gash marring her cheek. Her knuckles were raw, her breathing labored, but her eyes still held that defiant fire.

"You look like hell," I muttered, setting my med kit down.

"And you’re late," she shot back, her voice hoarse, though there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"Be grateful I showed up," I snapped, grabbing antiseptic and gauze. "Now sit still."

She straightened a little, wincing as I pressed a cloth to the cut on her cheek. Her sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed, and I caught the way her jaw tightened, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to stifle any sound.

"Stop squirming," I said, trying to focus, though her tension made my hands hesitate.

"Stop being so aggressive," she countered, though her voice was weaker than her usual bite.

I ignored her, working quickly to clean and bandage her wounds. Every touch made her flinch, muscles twitching under my fingers as I patched her up. She wouldn’t complain, though—she never did. Not about the fights, not about the pain.

"Why do you do this?" I asked quietly, breaking the silence as I disinfected a particularly nasty gash on her arm.

"Someone has to win," she said through gritted teeth. "Might as well be me."

"At this cost?" I pressed, but she only shrugged, wincing at the motion.

I sighed, taping the final bandage into place. "You’re impossible."

"Maybe," she murmured, leaning back against the wall. Her lips twitched into a grin despite the pain. "But you keep coming back."

I rolled my eyes, but my chest tightened at her words. No matter how much I wished she’d stop, I knew I’d always be here—because she’d always need me.