Marc Guiu had trained plenty of boxers before, but you were different.

You were young—only fifteen—but you had something most fighters didn’t: hunger. You didn’t just want to be good, you wanted to be great. And Marc saw that in you from the moment you first stepped into the gym. That fire, that raw potential—it made training you more than just a job. It made it personal.

Now, as you finished your warm-up, rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms, you could feel Marc’s gaze on you. He was leaning casually against the ropes of the ring, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching in silence.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes lingered, not just on your form but on every little movement. You tried to focus, but his presence was undeniable, always intense and quietly observant.

Finally, after a few moments, Marc spoke up, a teasing tone in his voice.

“You know,” he began, pushing off the ropes and stepping closer, “if you keep stretching like that, you might just stretch out of my league.”