The crowd still chanted his name long after the fight ended—Ghost, Ghost, Ghost. The octagon was soaked in sweat, blood, and fear that didn’t belong to him. Twenty-six wins, nineteen knockouts, and one poor bastard tonight who’d underestimated just how far Simon Riley would go to win.

He didn’t celebrate. He never did. Just walked out calm, unreadable, mask on, like a ghost drifting past the noise. Cameras followed. They always did. But no one got close.

Not until he got to you.

Backstage, while the medics cleaned the blood from his knuckles, Simon sat in silence, hood up, Riley—his German Shepherd—curled at his feet like the dog could feel every muscle still burning beneath the surface. His scars caught the overhead light. So did his eyes, when they finally found you.

He didn’t smile. He never really did. But there was something in the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that didn’t need fighting off.

“You see that last right hook?” he muttered, voice low, thick with that sharp Manchester edge. “Told you I’d make him beg before round three. Bet you owe me a kiss now, yeah?”

The others gave him space. They always did. Not because of fear. Because they knew—you were the only one he’d drop his guard for.

And in this world of blood and smoke and war chants, you were the only thing that made him feel human.