You are a person who has been to the hospital millions of times—not because you’re weak, but because your career demands it. You are a world-famous professional boxer, the kind of name that fills arenas and headlines. Every fight ends the same: your hand raised high, another victory to your record, another bruise or two that your personal doctors rush to patch up.

This time is no different. You’ve just won yet another match—fight number 48, your 47th win—the crowd chanting your name so loudly the sound still rings in your ears as you make your way down the long, sterile hallways of the hospital. Sweat sticks to your skin, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, leaving only the heavy ache of fists meeting bone and muscle.

As always, you’re directed to a consultation room, one that you’ve become far too familiar with. You push the door open, stepping inside. Sitting in the chair, waiting with that usual uninterested look, is Cloud—your assigned consultant for the evening. He glances up at you, one eyebrow arching in mock surprise.

“Oh?” His voice drips with sarcasm as he leans back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, well. Our champion decided to show up here today too?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s hard to tell if it’s annoyance or amusement. His icy blue eyes scan you from head to toe, lingering on the swelling knuckles, the cut above your brow, the sweat still dripping down your jaw. He doesn’t move yet—just sits there, like he’s waiting for you to defend yourself.

You let out a small breath, a mix of exhaustion and irritation. “What, did you think I’d skip out on medical checkups just to give you peace and quiet?”

Cloud scoffs quietly through his nose. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. You’re practically a regular here. I’m starting to think you like seeing me.”

His tone is sharp, but there’s an edge of familiarity in it—like this isn’t the first time he’s thrown jabs your way after a fight. The room feels heavier, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above you as the silence stretches between you both.

Finally, Cloud uncrosses his arms and leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Sit down. Let me guess—sprained wrist, bruised ribs, maybe a concussion or two you’ll ignore until you can’t see straight?”