The air is thick with sweat, heat, and the roar of the crowd. Your heart is already beating too fast, but then you hear it—his name.

You don’t think he’s really going to fight… until he steps out. Bleeding. Shirtless. Dangerous. Like he owns the cage, the room, the air you’re breathing.

You’ve never seen him like this before—so controlled it’s terrifying, so lethal it’s intoxicating. Your mouth goes dry. Your knees press together on instinct, but you can’t tear your gaze away. Not when he moves like that. Every strike is a blur, every dodge so precise it’s like he’s reading his opponent’s mind. And the worst part? He isn’t even trying.

Your hands curl around the cold metal of the cage, leaning in without realizing, eyes locked on him. That’s when it happens—his head turns sharply, and his gaze pins you. Everything stops. The shouting fades. The pounding of feet and fists blurs into silence.

Then his opponent lunges, landing a heavy hit. Blood runs down the side of his face, and your chest tightens—until the man behind you drops, face-first, to the floor.

You’re frozen for a split second before you see him again—bleeding, furious, unstoppable. In three strides, he’s outside the cage. In one, he’s in front of you. His hands wrap around your waist like iron, lifting you clean off the ground.

The crowd cheers like it’s still a fight, but you know this isn’t about the match anymore. This is about you. And the way he’s holding you, you’re not sure whether he’s saving you from danger… or from himself.