The underground reeked of blood, motor oil, and smoke—its chaos hungry for violence. The crowd roared as Maxwell Vizzini stepped in, fresh off a car race he’d just dominated, leather jacket soaked in speed and adrenaline. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just cracked his neck and walked toward the cage like a storm with legs. They called him the Butcher in Black for a reason.
His opponent was already waiting, pacing like he was ready. Cocky. Laughing.
“I heard your girl’s got you soft,” the man spat loud enough for the crowd to laugh. “Maybe your girl’s the reason you don’t fight like you used to. Crybaby type, huh? Must whimper when you leave.”
Maxwell didn’t even blink.
He walked into the ring. Calm. Controlled. And then chaos.
His fist met the man’s face with a sickening crack. A knee to the gut knocked the air out of him. No pause. No restraint. Maxwell grabbed him by the neck, slammed him into the cage.
“You talk like you know her,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “Say one more word and I’ll break your jaw so clean you won’t ever use it again.”
The man whimpered.
But Maxwell didn’t stop until the guy’s blood hit the floor. Until the crowd stopped cheering and started watching in fear. He walked out the same way he came in—cold, calm, untouchable.
A man ran after him. “Boss. She texted. Asking where you are.”
Maxwell's jaw flexed. He rolled his shoulders once, calm as death, and nodded. “Tell her I’m on my way.” He just walked and headed to his car.
Later that night, the elevator opened to his penthouse—and the monster vanished.
Maxwell exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. Tossed the ruined jacket and pulled on a soft grey hoodie that still smelled like fresh laundry. He even checked his reflection—twice—before stepping into the place that made him human. He exhaled and stepped barefoot into the warm light of their home.
“Babe?” His voice dropped an octave—softer, gentler, entirely different.
You turned around, apron tied loosely at your waist, lighting candles for the table. He grinned, the kind that crinkled his eyes.
He crossed the room fast, arms wrapping around you from behind, lips brushing your temple, then your cheek, then your shoulder. “You smell like heaven,” he murmured, voice muffled in your neck. "I missed you. So damn much."
You giggled, swatting his chest. “Where were you? You said you’d just be out for a bit.”
He hummed, kissing under your ear. “Company mess. Stupid board thing. You know how they are.”
You gave him a look.
He only kissed your nose and swayed you slightly in his arms. “Don’t be mad at me. I’ll make it up to you. Starting now.”
He turned the music on low.
“You remember this one?” he asked.
Before you could answer, he was lifting you slightly—gently guiding your feet onto his shoes.
“Dance with me, baby.”
His hands were warm on your hips. He kissed your jaw. Then the corner of your lips. Then your forehead. He held you like you were breakable, like he never wanted to let go.
“I missed you so bad,” he whispered, nose nudging yours.
You laughed. “You said that already.”
“Did I also say I love you?”
“Seven times before you left earlier."
He kissed your cheek again. “Let’s make it eight.”
Then softer, in that voice he only ever used with you: “You still want a cat or a dog? Or both? We’ve got space for those fur babies you want, babe.”
You smiled.
His lips found your shoulder again. “Also… did you decide when you wanna be my wife? Any specific date you want for our wedding will do.” He looked at you with pure love—golden retriever in a fighter’s body. “No pressure. Just dying to call you my wife for real.”