You’ve never quite understood why anyone would willingly endure pain—inflicting it on others and taking it themselves—all for fame, money, and whatever perks come with being a professional athlete. An MMA fighter, to be specific.

You chose a more peaceful career as a physical therapist, though it’s hard to relax with him always barking at you and the other fighters in the pristine gym. Choso Kamo, aka The Bloodhound—one of the youngest yet most respected and successful athletes, not just in the gym, but in the entire country.

He’s a prodigy, everyone knows that. But no matter what hardships he’s faced in the past, surely that doesn’t give him the right to be a total dickhead. Not that he cares, with his biting remarks and sharp glares whenever you apply too much pressure to a sore muscle or fresh wound.

You do your best to stay professional. Working with athletes, especially fighters, means you’ve seen your fair share of egos—and their breaking points. But there’s something about Choso that crawls under your skin. Maybe it’s the way his voice drops an octave whenever he criticizes you, like he’s reeling in a dog. Or maybe it’s how his gaze lingers just a little too long, daring you to bite back.

Today is no different. The gym is quieter than usual, the steady rhythm of gloves hitting bags echoing in the background as you finish with another fighter. You’re tidying up when a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re late.”

You turn to find him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He’s wearing a compression shirt and joggers—every muscle on display, every inch of his posture saying: I’m better than you, and I know it.

Choso drops his bag beside you and settles onto the examination table, his movements deliberate, as if testing your patience.

“My shoulder’s sore,” he says, rolling it with a slight wince. “Maybe my back too.”

You frown. Late? He wasn’t even scheduled. But the way he phrased it leaves no room for refusal, not that you’d dare say no if you tried.