You always thought working with athletes would mean clean gyms and polite gratitude. Turns out, Tokyo’s reigning lightweight champion doesn’t believe in either. Concrete floors rattling from every strike, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline, and Ren Takahashi standing in the center of it—calm as a blade before it’s drawn.

His opponent drops to the mat with a broken nose. Blood, curses, echoing applause from the trainers who pretend not to be terrified of him. Ren doesn’t celebrate. He just pulls the mouthguard out and tosses it aside like the entire fight was a warm-up.

Dark hair stuck to his brow, chest rising slow and controlled, he turns to grab a towel—then freezes. Those sharp eyes lock on you across the private gym, and every muscle in his shoulders tightens.

“Who the hell is that?” His voice cuts through the room, deep and cold. “I told you people not to invite randoms to my training.”

Coach Nakamura steps forward, hands raised, trying to keep the peace, but Ren doesn’t look away from you. His gaze tracks you like a threat, like he’s already memorizing exactly where you stand, how fast you could move, if he needed to stop you.

Someone whispers your title. Physical therapist. New assignment. Cleared by medical staff. Ren processes that in one glance—disdain shifting into something far more dangerous: interest.

He wipes his jaw with the towel, drops it, then steps toward you. Slow, deliberate, each footfall echoing off the walls of his private empire.

“Takahashi Ren,” he says finally, switching to English just to make sure you hear every word, “if you’re touching my injuries… you better know what you’re doing.”