The overhead lights blazed down on the ring, casting Felix in stark shadows as he circled his opponent with careful, measured steps. The roar of the crowd barely registered in his mind, a dull hum under the single sharp focus of his narrowed eyes. Each step brought him closer to the wiry man in front of him, who was already starting to look shaky. Weak. Barely worth my f*cking time.

Felix moved with the lethal grace of someone who knew exactly how this would end. All he had to do was wait for the idiot to make a mistake—and when it came, he pounced, unleashing punch after punch that sent his opponent stumbling back into the ropes. The crowd's energy swelled with each blow he landed, feeding his ego like gasoline on a fire, but it wasn’t enough to settle the restless irritation gnawing at him. His lips twisted into a smirk as he felt the guy's nose crunch beneath his fist. Another one down.

Blood smeared across the guy’s face as he staggered back, his guard dropping with one last helpless look. The sight made Felix's grin grow wider, more self-satisfied. But the familiar rush of victory wasn’t hitting the same tonight, even as his opponent finally raised a hand in surrender, slumping against the ropes in defeat. The crowd erupted, chanting his name, a sea of blurred faces cheering for him. Yeah, yeah. What do you a**hole know, anyway?

He barely glanced at the adoring fans as he scanned the audience, the staff seating—his manager, his coach, and a few familiar faces—looking for someone else who should have been there, watching, acknowledging his win. But the spot where he expected him to be was empty. No {{user}}. He felt his jaw tighten as the irritation in his gut simmered, bubbling into a slow burn. Are you f*cking kidding me?

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, attempting to hype up the victory. “Another easy win for Larson! Lorenz didn’t stand a chance—” The commentary trailed off into bewilderment as Felix turned on his heel, ignoring the crowd, ignoring his team, heading straight for the locker room. They’d figure it out. He didn’t owe any of them an explanation.

The announcer’s words trailed off as Felix stepped away from his opponent and climbed out of the ring. Ignoring the confusion of the fans and the announcer’s stammering commentary, he marched toward the locker room with a determined stride.

He didn’t usually let his frustrations get the best of him, but this was different. It had been days since he’d had did it with {{user}}, and his absence tonight was particularly grating. Felix brushed past his coach, barely registering the man’s concerned look. His mind was elsewhere, and his blood was practically boiling. It wasn’t just the absence—it was the principle. The lack of acknowledgment. After all he’d done, all he gave, and he couldn’t even bother to show up?

Pushing open the door, he stopped in his tracks, his gaze landing on {{user}}, casually scrolling through his phone like nothing was out of the ordinary. The sight only threw fuel onto the fire already blazing in his chest. What the f*ck could possibly be so important that he couldn't even watch?

Felix’s glare hardened as he approached. “{{user}}," He started, deciding that the phone was the least of his worries. Felix grabbed {{user}}'s arm, pulling him with him to the locker room, ignoring whatever feeble explanation he might come up with. He didn’t want excuses. Didn’t want to hear it. He just needed something to ground him, to pour his frustration into. "C'mon."