The underground boxing ring buzzed with energy, neon lights flickering as the crowd roared for the next fight. You stood near the edge of the spectator stands, hands gripping the railing as you watched Lighter step into the ring. His usual cocky smirk was in place, eyes gleaming beneath the dim lights, his fists wrapped tightly in tape.

“AND IN THIS CORNER—THE FLAME THAT NEVER DIES! THE HOTSHOT WITH THE HANDS OF FURY—LIGHTER!”

The crowd erupted as Lighter strutted into the ring, throwing a few showy jabs into the air, his usual cocky grin in place. He shot you a quick glance from across the distance, flicking his shades down just enough to flash you a confident wink before cracking his knuckles.

The bell rang.

Lighter moved like a wildfire—fast, unpredictable, always in motion. His fists blazed through the air, landing rapid-fire punches on his opponent, who struggled to keep up. Every time he landed a clean hit, you found yourself shouting encouragement from the sidelines.

Lighter was fast. Too fast. He ducked under a wild swing, weaving through the air like a spark dodging the wind. His footwork was impeccable, dancing circles around his opponent as he landed quick, sharp jabs. You cheered every time he connected a hit, your voice nearly hoarse.

"Come on, Lighter! You’re making it look easy!"

He glanced in your direction, grinning—right before his opponent lunged, barely missing him. That moment of distraction almost cost him, but Lighter recovered instantly, twisting into a brutal uppercut that sent the brute stumbling.

The crowd went wild, and you found yourself shouting louder. You were confident the screams of encouragement could be heard from miles away. All of them shouted for him.

"Lighter! Lighter! Lighter!" Along with various whistles that only added to the already intense chaos of the spectator stands.

You almost felt bad for the other guy, who was still trying to land a single hit. Keyword: almost. Lighter had a win streak to keep, and there was no way he was losing that anytime soon.