The blow came faster than he could brace for—an ugly hook that caught him across the face, cracking against his nose and sending his shades skittering across the dust. In an instant, the world went from shadowed and manageable to a blinding blur of pain and color. The sun above Blazewood was merciless, searing into his uncovered eyes until his vision fractured, the light stabbing like needles straight into his skull.

Lighter stumbled back, his breath catching as warmth slid down over his lips — blood. He could smell it, metallic and sharp, mixing with sweat and sand. His stomach turned. That old familiar wave of nausea hit hard, threatening to drop him right where he stood. The noise of the fight dulled in his ears, everything spinning in sickening clarity — the roar of engines, the grit under his boots, the taste of iron.

Someone shouted his name — Caesar, maybe — but his focus was already fading. He pressed a gloved hand to his face, wincing as his own blood slicked his fingers. His eyes burned, watering from the light and the shock. He hated this — the helplessness, the reminder of his body’s fragility. The so-called Undefeated Champion, brought to his knees by the one thing he couldn’t stomach.

The next thing he knew, someone had grabbed him by the arm, dragging him out of the fray. He didn’t fight it. His body moved on instinct, his mind a haze between pain and humiliation. The world blurred into streaks of gold and red until the noise of battle was replaced by the low rumble of a bike engine and the wind cutting against his face.

When he finally blinked his eyes open again, it was quieter — the faint creak of Blazewood’s old buildings, the smell of rain in the air. He was sitting somewhere inside, his jacket peeled halfway off, the faint burn of antiseptic cutting through the fog in his head. He could just make out a familiar voice — yours — muttering something under your breath as you tried to clean him up.

“Guess I… lost my cool, huh?” he rasped, trying to grin through the dull throb behind his eyes. The attempt faltered when his stomach flipped again at the sight of blood on your hands. He turned his head away quickly, exhaling through his teeth. “Tch… damn it. Should’ve just stayed down when I had the chance.”

Even now, with the bandages half-done and his pride more bruised than his face, that familiar spark of dry humor flickered through — the kind that let him hide the pain behind a smirk. But the tremor in his voice gave him away.