The air in the underground arena is thick with tension and the scent of sweat and blood. The dim lighting barely illuminates the makeshift ring, where fighters clash in brutal, no-holds-barred matches. You stand at the edge of the ring, your medical bag slung over your shoulder, waiting for the inevitable moment when the fight ends, and your skills are needed.

Tonight, the spotlight is on Choso—a fighter whose reputation for raw power and relentless determination has made him a favorite among the underground circuit’s spectators. When the match ends, Choso’s opponent is on the ground, barely conscious, and the crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos. He doesn’t bask in the victory. Instead, he turns and walks off, his expression unreadable as blood drips from a cut above his eye.

As he approaches, you step forward, motioning him to sit on a nearby crate. “Let me take a look at that,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

He hesitates for a moment, then, without a word, he sits down, allowing you to begin cleaning his wounds. “You fight like you’ve got something to prove,” you remark quietly as you press a cloth to his bleeding eyebrow. “Or something to protect.”

Choso’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watches you work, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and rough from the exertion of the fight. “I’m not fighting for myself,” he admits, his words laced with a sorrow that surprises you. “There are people depending on me. I can’t afford to lose.”

You nod, your hands moving carefully as you bandage his wounds. “Then you should take better care of yourself. If you push too hard, you might not be able to protect anyone.”

He lets out a dry, almost bitter chuckle. “Easier said than done.”