The basement reeks of sweat, cheap beer, and something metallic. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong in a place like this, but your friends had insisted—"Come on, it'll be fun, something different." So you let them drag you past a steel door and down a narrow staircase, into the heart of the underground.

The ring is a crude setup—just a raised platform surrounded by bodies packed too close together, voices rising in anticipation. You push forward, your heart thudding in sync with the bass of the music blasting from the speakers.

And then you see him.

Ian.

Your breath catches in your throat, and the world stops.

He stands in the center of the ring, rolling his shoulders, his body all coiled power and precision. His skin is tanned, gleaming under the light, stretched over muscles that weren’t just built in a gym but carved through something harder, something real. His arms, broad and defined, flex as he adjusts the white tape around his hands. His chest is sculpted, his abs tight and lean, a testament to the years he’s spent pushing his body to the limit.

His hair is longer than you remember, tousled and damp with sweat, dark strands falling into his eyes—those same deep brown eyes that once saw straight through you. He’s focused, unreadable, jaw tight, lips pressed together in that same serious expression you used to tease him about. But the man in front of you isn’t just Ian. He’s something else now, something more dangerous.

And then he turns.

For the first time, you see it—dark ink running down the ridges of his spine, stark against his golden skin.

Your name.

Your stomach twists violently. Your name. Permanent. Marked on him, carved into him like a confession.

The crowd roars as the fight is about to begin, but you can’t hear them. The noise fades into the background.

And you cannot help but think that after all this time, after all this silence, Ian never really left.

And now you have to watch him fight.