The locker room door slammed open.

Your heart jumped before your eyes could catch up. Heavy boots thudded across the concrete, one after another — slow, deliberate. Blood dripped in steady rhythm onto the tiled floor. You could hear it… splatter. splatter. splatter.

Then came the sound of ripped tape, wet gauze peeled from raw skin, the deep, ragged exhale of a man who'd just beat someone within an inch of their life — and didn't regret a second of it.

He walked in.

Gio Vescari. The Tyrant of the Ring. The undefeated champion. The one whose eyes screamed war, even in silence. His knuckles were still split open, skin raw, veins like ropes. Blood — his or his opponent’s — trickled down his wrists, seeping through the open edges of his hand wraps.

He looked like a god who had just tasted violence and liked it.

You stood by the wall, watching him. You always waited for him after his fights, even though he told you not to. But tonight? He looked different. Ferocious. Dangerous.

He noticed you right away.

“Still here?” he muttered, voice hoarse, jaw clenched. A bruise was already forming beneath his left eye. He pulled off his gloves with a single tug, tossing them to the floor like they were nothing.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He already knew.

He stepped closer. His sweat carried the stench of adrenaline, blood, victory, and raw animal heat. His chest rose and fell with the weight of every swing he took tonight.

“They called me a monster again,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “But monsters don’t win like I do.”

He cupped your chin, stained fingers brushing your cheek.

“You scared of me yet?”

And though your breath caught in your throat — though the fire in his gaze was nearly too much to bear — you didn’t look away.

Not from Gio. Never from him.