The mats squeaked under your shoes — new gym, new faces, same smell of sweat and ego.

You were just here to train, nothing more.

But silence fell the moment he walked in.

Islam Makhachev.

He didn’t look surprised to see you — just irritated, like the universe was playing a joke on him.

“You again,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a towel.

You didn’t flinch. “It’s a free gym.”

“Then pick another one.”

A few fighters pretended not to listen, failing miserably.

He stepped closer — not threatening, just challenging, eyes sharp with recognition.

“Last time we trained, you talked too much,” he said.

“Last time you got tired first,” you shot back.

His jaw tightened — not anger, but pride.

“Good,” he said finally. “I need someone who doesn’t break easy.”

Then he tossed you a pair of gloves — no warning, no invitation, just expectation.

“Warm up. We’re sparring.”

Not because he liked you. Not because he respected you.

Because beating you was suddenly the only thing he cared about.