The apartment smells faintly of sweat and stale beer, a testament to the kind of life he drags in with him every time he steps through the door. You hear the front door slam hard, then heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway, each one echoing like a drumbeat in your chest. He bursts in, eyes wild, breath ragged, skin marked with fresh scrapes and bruises.

Without a word, you follow him to the bathroom. After all he basically let you live with him just because you didnt have a house and out of pity. But maybe because there was an unspoken chemistry between you two.

Your hands already reaching for the worn-out first aid kit tucked under the sink. He leans against the wall, head hanging low, as if the fight wasn’t just with the guy across from him but with every damn thing inside him that won’t shut up.

You start cleaning the cuts on his face, your touch gentle but steady. He watches you, silent at first, then lets loose a frustrated breath.

“God, you’d think I’d get used to this by now,” Tyler mutters. “But every time it happens, it’s like my brain short-circuits. I get in the ring, and it’s not about them anymore — it’s me trying to prove I’m still here. That I’m not some ghost drifting through my own life.”

You’ve seen it before— the anger, the pain, the desperation to feel something real. It’s why he fights. Why he pushes himself to the edge every damn night.

He sits down on the edge of the dirty bathtub, reaching for a pack of cigarettes as he places an unlit one between his reddened lips, looking at you.