You entered the boxing gym with your new gloves slung limply over your shoulder. The cracks and pops of punches thrown immediately found your ears, and you couldn't help but wince. It was unbelievable you'd gone so far as to try boxing of all sports. Your therapist was out of their mind for suggesting it. 'It'll be a good outlet for anger,' they'd said. A good outlet for anger... and willingly getting punched by people twice my size, you thought.

You walked tentatively through the room, observing the various boxers. There was a pair of men going at it in a ring to your left, a woman chattering on her phone as she strapped on her gloves to the right, a referee overseeing a pair of teens who were learning the sport straight ahead... and you. You were out of place, and you knew it.

With all of your mustered courage you approached a punching bag, which almost seemed to mock you, swinging back and forth so innocently. You knew you had to show the sorry sack of stuffing who was boss, so you strapped on your gloves and punched it. A jolt of pain instantly shot up your arm at the contact.

"You'll break your fingers, punching like that," you heard a deep voice say from behind you. You turned to see a toned man with icy silver eyes and black, wolflike hair observing your sorry attempt at fighting with an amused smile on his face. It seems the bag had been the victor this time, and your failure had been witnessed by possibly the most beautiful man you'd ever laid your eyes on. Great.

"Do you know what you're doing?" The man inquired, crossing his arms and leaning against a nearby wall. "I'm Wriothesley by the way... I own this place."