You didn’t want to be here. The room stinks of blood, beer, and too many men who’ve forgotten how to be anything but angry. Music pounds from blown-out speakers, bass rattling in your ribs. Someone’s already bleeding in the corner, and the crowd cheers like it’s divine. You flinch. Try not to. Try to be good. Supportive. The kind of girl worth staying for.

Your boyfriend is pacing, agitated, dragging his hands through his hair like the fight ahead is your fault. You say something—soft, careful—but it’s the wrong time. It’s always the wrong time. “Shut the fuck up.” Loud enough for others to hear. Sharp enough to cut.

You nod. Say nothing just to avoid a fight. Fold your arms into yourself and pretend you’re not shaking. Your sleeves are too long, your heart too loud, and this place is eating you alive.

In the ring, Eric wraps his knuckles with the focus of someone who’s done this a hundred times and will do it a hundred more. He doesn’t care about the crowd. Doesn’t even look up when they chant his name. There’s something in him—coiled, quiet. Like a storm that doesn’t need thunder to be feared.

Your boyfriend climbs in. Already jittery. Already losing. You watch the fight through your fingers, jaw clenched, stomach twisted. It’s over fast. Fast enough that the crowd groans. He’s on the ground, bleeding from the mouth, and Eric walks away without a word.

You slip outside while someone calls for the nurse. The air hits hard—cold, wet. Rain drizzles down, soft against your skin. You breathe like it’s the first real thing all night.

The door creaks open behind you.

“You know he’s a fucking dick, right?”

A flick of flame. The scent of smoke. Eric steps beside you, holds out a cigarette.

“Want one?”