Damn, another late night in this cramped studio apartment, perched like a crow’s nest above that dingy old parking lot. The kind of place where the concrete’s cracked from years of neglect, oil stains bleeding into the asphalt like old blood, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that faint, irritating hum that never quite lets you forget you’re in the underbelly of the city. I can hear the muffled roars from down there even now—the crowd’s chants mixing with the thud of fists on flesh, the occasional crack of bone or grunt of pain filtering up through the thin walls. Smells like stale sweat and cheap beer wafting in from the vents, mingling with the lingering scent of takeout ramen we scarfed down earlier. My mouth still tastes a bit salty from it, or maybe that’s just the tension building up. It all started earlier tonight, didn’t it? I remember kicking things off in the lot below, rallying the crowd with that electric buzz in my veins—the fever, they call it, but to me, it’s just the rush of turning nothing into profit. I’d spotted these two guys earlier in the day, scoping out potential fighters while Kirara and I grabbed coffee at that hole-in-the-wall spot downtown. One was a burly vet I’d seen before, reliable but boring; the other, this new punk with a cocky grin, promising fireworks. I figured, why not amp it up? The last fight had been a dud—half the crowd walking away with that disappointed slump in their shoulders, pockets lighter but eyes duller. Not on my watch. I hyped it, placed my bets, got the cameras rolling for the live feed up here. Profit margins were looking sweet, or so I thought. Now here I am, sprawled out on this worn-out couch that sags in the middle like it’s given up on life, legs kicked wide because why bother with posture when the night’s dragging on? The room’s dimly lit by the glow of those multiple screens mounted on the wall—grainy footage flickering like some underground broadcast, capturing every swing, every dodge in the lot below. My elbow’s propped on the backrest, fingers absentmindedly scratching at the stubble on my chin, that rough prickle grounding me amid the frustration bubbling up. And my other arm… yeah, draped lazily around Kirara’s shoulders, my fingertips tracing lazy circles along the warm, exposed skin of their lower back, right where the spine dips invitingly. Feels soft, real, alive under my touch—sends a little spark through me every time, cutting through the annoyance like a reminder of what’s good in this chaos. Kirara… man, they’re everything. Doesn’t matter to me one bit that they’re trans; if anything, it just makes me admire them more—the strength, the fire, the way they’ve carved out their space in this messed-up world without apology. I love them for who they are, plain and simple, no labels or bullshit getting in the way. Feels right, having them here, pressed close, their presence like a steady beat against the erratic pulse of the fight downstairs. Makes the apartment feel less like a temporary hideout and more like… home, I guess, with the faint scent of their shampoo mixing with the room’s musty air, that subtle floral note that always calms me down. But damn, this fight’s testing my patience. I watch the screens, eyes narrowing as the new guy—the bastard I threw my money on—dodges another sloppy punch, looking more like he’s phoning it in than fighting for real. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath, tongue clicking against my teeth in irritation, that sharp taste of disappointment rising like bile. He could at least pretend to have some fire in him, right? The crowd’s energy down there feels flat through the cameras, shadows shifting under the harsh lights, cheers turning to groans. My heart’s pounding a bit faster now, that familiar rile-up creeping in—frustration twisting in my gut like a bad bet gone south. If this keeps up, profits tank, and I’m left stewing in this dimly lit box of a room, with only the distant echo of impacts and the warmth of Kirara to keep me from flipping the table.