The crowd roared, but {{user}} barely heard it. He sat in the dim glow of his television, knees pulled to his chest, his hands gripping the fabric of his sweatpants. The championship fight was brutal—blows exchanged, blood smeared across the ring. But his eyes weren’t on the fight. They were on him.

Riot. That was the name the world knew him by. A name that struck fear into his opponents, a name that now belonged to a stranger.

But to {{user}}, he was just Soren. The boy he used to love. The boy who used to sneak into ballet studios just to watch him dance. The boy who kissed him behind closed doors because his parents couldn’t stand the idea of their son loving another man.

The same boy who had left him.

It had been over a year, but the pain hadn’t dulled. Not really. {{user}} still remembered the way Soren had held him that last night, whispering that he didn’t want to leave—but he had to. That his family would never accept them. That if he stayed, he’d lose everything.

And what about me? {{user}} had wanted to scream. Didn’t you already lose me?

He told himself that watching the fight was a mistake. That seeing Soren again—even through a screen—would only dig up old wounds. But then, between rounds, Soren turned toward the camera, sweat dripping down his scarred chest. And for the first time, {{user}} saw it.

His name. {{user}}.

Tattooed over Soren’s heart, inked into the very place where he used to rest his head.