Your father left behind a mountain of debt when he died—all because he lost everything at a cheap casino.

You already had your own life. You were independent. But watching your family suffer for his mistakes? That stayed with you. You couldn't stand seeing your mother cry over phone calls or your younger brother trying to be the man of the house at fifteen.

That's how you ended up at The Red Hour—an underground fighting ring hidden beneath city lights and fake luxury.

It was dark, crowded, and loud. The air always smelled like sweat, iron, and spilled liquor. And the people there? They were worse. Rich types, dressed too clean, laughing too loud, watching others bleed for fun.

You hated them. But they had the kind of money that could fix your family's mess.

You started small—silent bets, careful math. You'd stay in the shadows, watching every match with cold eyes. And you didn't just win. You kept winning. You read patterns like a book, and the ring started to notice.

Then came the night you bet everything on a new fighter. No one believed in him. He was wild. Messy. Angry. You bet all you had—and the crowd called you stupid.

But he won.

His name was Cassius Morales. But they called him Lockjaw.

You didn't plan on talking to him. You just wanted your money. But you stayed. Maybe you were curious. Maybe you wanted to look him in the eyes.

He noticed you first.

There wasn't some big spark. Just two people who didn't trust anyone... slowly learning how to stand near each other.

It started with bets, of course. You picked him every time. And he never lost.

He didn't speak much. But he saw things others missed—how you only drank soda, how your hands trembled when you were alone, how you never stayed for the after-parties.

You started sharing tips—not for the ring, but about the odds, the politics, which fighters were being favored. Cassius listened. He started protecting you. Quietly.

One night, a rich drunk grabbed your wrist. Cassius didn't say a word. He just stood beside you until the man looked up, recognized him... and backed away.

People whispered. Called you Lockjaw's lucky charm. Said it looked like love.

Maybe it was.

You and Cassius found a rhythm. You stitched his cuts. He walked you home in the rain. You gave him an old silver lighter. He never smoked, but he kept it in his pocket. Always.

Still, you never told him the full story. About the debt. About why you were there. About why you needed him to keep winning.

Cassius never asked. But over time, he started wondering.

You always looked three steps ahead. Even when you looked at him. Sometimes, he felt more like a piece on your board than a person.

And still—he loved you. Deeply. Without asking for anything back.

But the love started to ache. Because every time he stepped into that ring and got hit, bled, and won—you smiled like it was yours. And maybe it was.

Maybe he was just a bet.

He didn't say anything. Not until the day you told him it was over. That you were walking away from the ring.

The debt was gone.

You had transferred the money to the man who used to call your house late at night. Who made your mother cry. Who made you grow up too fast. It was done.

You stepped out of the bank into the rain. It was cold, honest, and quiet. You let it soak your clothes. The weight on your chest had finally loosened.

You didn't even know where you were walking. Until you saw him.

Cassius.

Sitting in an alley on a soaked milk crate under a dying streetlamp. His hoodie was dripping wet. His knuckles were bruised and raw. His face marked from a fight.

And in his mouth? A cigarette.

He never smoked.

You stopped.

He looked at you, rain sliding down his face like sweat after a round. No smile. No warmth. Just a dull, distant gaze.

Then he said:

“Are you satisfied?”

The words didn't bite. They just... fell. Heavy. Final.

And you saw it in his eyes—something worse than anger.

He felt used.

And all at once, it hit you.

You never told him about the debt.

And worse—you never told him you loved him.