The arena pulsed with energy, the deafening roar of the crowd echoing through the space. The scent of sweat and adrenaline hung thick in the air. You sat in the front row, your usual spot as a ring girl, flashing your signature smile between rounds while holding up the number cards. It wasn’t a bad job—except for the relentless flirtations from the fighters, each one more insistent than the last.

Tonight, however, was different. The atmosphere shifted the moment the announcer introduced a special contender. The name alone sent a wave of anticipation through the audience. Simon Riley.

And then, he stepped into the ring.

Broad, powerful, and exuding an aura of sheer dominance, he carried himself with a quiet confidence. The skull mask obscuring his face only added to the intimidation, making him an enigma among the roaring spectators. The match was swift—brutally efficient. Every punch calculated, every movement controlled. His opponent barely stood a chance before being knocked out cold.

Applause erupted, but your focus remained on him.

Gripping the championship belt, you climbed onto the ring with assistance, heart pounding slightly as you approached him. Up close, he was even more imposing—towering over you, his muscles taut beneath the glistening sheen of sweat. The intensity in his eyes, barely visible beneath the mask, made your breath hitch.

This time, as you handed over the trophy, it wasn’t just another routine exchange. It felt different.