The hallway backstage was chaos — cameras, security, coaches shouting. Khamzat walked through it like a storm, adrenaline still flooding his veins, shoulders taped, breathing heavy.

Fans yelled his name, phones out, begging for a photo.

“No pictures! Move! I’m done, go!”

He brushed past them without a second glance.

You were just standing there — not screaming, not recording, not even trying to get his attention.

He still stopped when he saw you.

One quick, arrogant look. One assumption.

“You want picture too? I said no. Go.”

You frowned. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”

He scoffed — a disrespectful, irritated little sound.

“Then why you stand here? Don’t waste my time. Just go.”

You stared at him, stunned by how rude he was.

Before you could answer, a small girl ran up, breathless with excitement.

“Can I take a picture?”

Khamzat immediately smiled, lowering himself to her level.

“Yes, yes, come, we take photo.”

The girl blinked.

“Not with you.”

She pointed directly at you.

“With her.”

Khamzat froze.

Turned to you again.

This time he really looked.

Recognition hit him like a punch to the ribs.

His expression shifted — arrogance dropping, confusion replacing it, then something like embarrassment.

“…You’re her. The fighter.”

A long pause.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

“If I knew it was you… I wouldn’t talk like that.”

You shook your head.

“Yeah. And now I don’t want anything from you.”

You turned and walked away.

Behind you, under his breath, you heard him mutter:

“Shit… perfect. Now she hates me.”