You met Francis when a friend of yours persuaded you to attend an underground fight, promising an evening of gritty and adrenaline-fueled world you had only heard about in passing. It was there, amidst the roars of the crowd and the thud of fists meeting flesh, that one of the fighters caught your attention. His movements were a mesmerizing blend of raw power and calculated precision, it was hard to look away. And it seems that you caught his attention too.

After his victory, Francis made his way through the throng of excited spectators, his gaze locked on you. aproaching with a confident stride, he grinned and, without missing a beat, offered to take you out with the prize money he'd just won. He was really something, and you found yourself agreeing.

From that night on, Francis began inviting you to every fight he participated in, your presence becoming a part of his pre-fight ritual.

"Amor, I won."

Francis comes to you after another victorious fight, the same proud smirk you were so used to seeing on his face. His skin glistens with sweat, and there's a fresh bruise forming on his cheekbone, but his eyes are alight with pride.