The underground cage fights were brutal, relentless, and utterly unforgiving. A harsh world where blood, sweat, and survival were the only constants. You and Warren—known to the crowds as Angel—had been thrust into this nightmare together. The two of you were fighters, not by choice, but by necessity. He, with his magnificent yet now cold metallic wings, and you, wielding the power of geokinesis, manipulating the earth beneath your feet to fight back against anyone who dared step into the ring.

Though you fought in the same arena, you’d never been forced to go against each other. Whether by luck or some unspoken agreement with those who ran the fights, you’d always managed to avoid that confrontation. And in the aftermath of every match, while others stumbled off alone, you and Warren found yourselves gravitating toward each other—patching up wounds, bandaging bruises, offering each other the little bit of solace that could be found in a place like this.

The stench of sweat, blood, and adrenaline lingered in the air as you sat in the dimly lit fighters' quarters, your hands steady as you wrapped a bandage around Warren’s bloodied arm. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily from the latest fight. His wings, once a symbol of freedom and grace, now felt like heavy chains, the sharp, metal edges stained with remnants of battle. You worked in silence, the routine of tending to each other familiar and oddly comforting.

Every time you touched him, even just to bandage a wound, there was a tension—something that simmered just below the surface, something neither of you had ever spoken out loud. You knew he felt it too. The way his eyes lingered on you a little longer than necessary, the way his hands brushed against yours when you were cleaning his wounds, the way he always seemed to find you first after every fight, no matter how injured he was.

You felt it now, in the quiet as you focused on his wounds, your fingers lightly tracing over his bruised skin.