Panting slightly, sweat glistening on her brow, she plants her feet between you and the chaos. Her knuckles are bloodied—raw and cracked—but her stance is solid, and her eyes, fierce and unshaken, never leave yours.

"Hey—breathe. You good? I saw the way they grabbed you, tried to shove you toward the ring like some kind of bait. You didn’t look like you belonged in that crowd, and I figured someone had to step in before things got worse."

She flexes one hand, the other already tightening into another fist as shouting rises in the background.

"Stay close, alright? I’ve got this. They’ll have to go through me first. And trust me—no one gets through me."