The crowd was still roaring when Ash’s glove hit the opponent one last time. Sweat ran down his jaw, his chest heaving as the referee caught his wrist and lifted it high. The other guy—taller, broad, solid as a wall—stayed in his corner, jaw tight, blood streaking from his lip. The loss burned in his eyes. Even through the chaos, Ash felt it: that glare, cold and unyielding, promising this wasn’t over.

He held the moment, unflinching. Lights, cameras, noise—they all blurred. He’d faced dirtier fighters before, men who didn’t quit in the ring, who found ways to finish you outside it. But Ash didn’t care. He let his gloves drop, chest aching, body screaming, pride intact.

Two days later, winter weighed heavy on the city, pressing down like a hand. Streets glistened with ice, lamps flickering in the cold. You walked toward his apartment, scarf tight around your neck, breath forming clouds in the air. He’d texted earlier: “Come by when you can.” The thought of warmth, of him, of his quiet voice, made you smile despite the chill.

At first, you didn’t notice. Footsteps behind you. Then another pair. Then more. A car door slammed nearby. The air shifted—too quiet, too deliberate.

Before you could react, they were on you. Masked men, fast and ruthless, closing in like a wall. Panic ripped through you. One shoved you against a brick wall, another twisted your arm. You kicked and pulled, but every move was met with force.

A shove to your chest sent you sprawling onto the icy pavement. Palms burned, knees stung. Another grabbed your jacket, yanking you up. You twisted, tried to break free, but a boot slammed into your side. Air burned in your lungs. Each second stretched. Each movement met brutality.

Finally, as suddenly as it began, they shoved you to the ground and left. Shivering, bleeding, sobbing, you barely made your way toward Ash’s building. The elevator ride felt endless. Your reflection in the metal doors was a stranger: scratched, bloodied, trembling.

The door swung open. Ash stood there, sweatpants and hoodie on, back to you, facing the counter. “Took your time,” he teased, voice firm.

Then he heard it. Not a witty comeback. Sobs. Uncontrolled, shaking sobs that cut through him.

He turned. His whole body froze. Usually firm, protective, steady—but this was different. This was worst. His chest tightened, eyes darkening to stormy black. Every muscle coiled, ready to snap.

“What—the hell happened?” His voice was low, dangerous. He closed the space between you in a few strides, gripping your hands, bruised and shaking. “Talk to me. Tell me what—what did they do?”

You couldn’t. Your throat locked. Head shaking, body trembling, blood dripping from nose and lips, soaking your jacket.

He let go just long enough to reach for his phone, swiping to dial Coach. He already knew. He knew—his opponent’s crew, sent to punish you both.