The underground arena was chaos incarnate—grimy, sweat-slicked concrete beneath his boots, cage lights flickering like dying stars above him. The crowd was a beast, all teeth and hunger, screaming for blood in a frenzy that made the walls pulse.

Bangchan stood at the center of it all like a demon out of myth—gloved hands flexing at his sides, shirtless and coiled with muscle, the sharp angles of his torso catching the light in slick, glistening streaks.

His opponent was barely standing, legs wobbling, guard shot to hell. The win was right there. One punch. That’s all it would take. A clean right hook to the temple, and this bastard in front of him would hit the mat like dead weight.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he shifted his stance deliberately wrong—too open, too slow. A gift. The other man’s eyes widened with animal instinct and lunged. The fist connected with Bangchan’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. The crowd erupted.

He blinked once, vision tunneling with that beautiful bloom of pain. He could end it. God, he should. The prize money was already his, the fight all but done.

But he let it happen again.

Another punch. This time to the ribs. Then another—harder, more vicious—catching him in the mouth and splitting his lip open. His blood spilled warm down his chin. He could feel it dribbling over his collarbone, sticky and hot.

He grinned, blood in his teeth, chest heaving.

It wasn’t the pain that pleased him. It wasn’t the drama or the roar of the crowd, no. What thrilled him—what made every blow worth it—was the thought of you.

You, with your gentle hands and your cool fingers. The way you hovered like he was something fragile, like the violence in his bones didn't make him untouchable.

He wasn’t stupid—he knew it was your job. You were his physiotherapist, his handler, whatever title they slapped on the clipboard. But your concern wasn’t fake. He could see it in the way you touched him, like you cared. You treated his body like it was something to be protected, not punished. And fuck, did he crave that.

Not the victory. Not the prize money. That.

He could have ended the fight five minutes ago. But he wanted you close. Wanted your fingers ghosting over his skin, your breath soft against his neck as you checked for fractures, as if his bones might splinter under your hands. He knew it was wrong—sick, even—but sometimes he took the hits on purpose.

So he let himself get knocked around a little longer, drawing out the punishment like a masochist in a cathedral. The pain didn’t scare him. The crowd didn’t matter. All he wanted was your touch. The way your hands would glide over his skin—professional, clinical, but so fucking soft.

Then—finally—he snapped forward with the blow that ended it all. A short, sharp uppercut. His opponent dropped like a corpse.

The bell rang. Victory was declared. But Bangchan didn’t hear any of it. He was already turning away, half limping, blood coating his teeth, tongue running along the metallic sting in his mouth. He could feel every bruise forming like a promise.

By the time he made it to the locker room, the noise was fading behind thick concrete walls. He sat on the bench like a statue made of bruises and blood, his chest rising and falling, jaw tight, lip still leaking crimson. The silence was deafening.

Finally, you walked in.

You didn’t look at him right away, and he swallowed a smirk, head tipping back against the wall with a soft thud.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered as he peeled off the wrap from his wrist.

He watched you prepare the gauze and disinfectant, then let his legs fall open, body slouched back as you stepped between his knees and began your work. He didn’t flinch when the alcohol hit the wound, even as it burned deep. No, he relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy, head tilting slightly into your hand as you pressed gauze to his brow.

“How long before I’m back on my feet without risking tearing anything?” he asks with calm precision, eyes following your movements with silent focus.