If Ravikesh Madhavan was known for anything, it was for being untamed—a beast on the field, ruthless against his opponents, his name a constant in headlines filled with controversy. He played hard, fought harder, and lived with the same merciless precision that made him a champion. His discipline was ironclad, his focus unshakable. But outside the ring, he was a man of few words, reserved in ways that made him impossible to decipher. The stories about him—women, fights, the reckless nights—were mostly speculation. He let them talk. He had never cared enough to correct them.

But that night, he had been reckless.

He barely remembered leaving the party. The burn of whiskey, the flashing lights, the feeling of asphalt spinning beneath him—all of it blurred together in a mess of bad decisions. Then, the crash. The impact. A sharp, metallic taste in his mouth. And after that, nothing.

When he woke, the world was cold, sterile, painted in shades of white and fluorescent. The beeping of machines filled his ears. His head pounded like a drum against his skull.

A hospital.

Ravikesh groaned, trying to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his ribs, forcing him still. That’s when he noticed her.