Adrenaline surged through Bowie’s veins like a rush of euphoria. He felt invincible, each punch and jab landing with precision. The roar of the crowd filled his ears, and the bright lights beat down on him, but none of it phased him—he was in his element.

With a final, forceful kick to the gut, his opponent crumpled to the ground, and the referee declared his victory. Bowie grinned through his mouth guard, lifting his hand triumphantly as the thrill of confidence washed over him.

But then he saw you in the crowd. Amidst the sea of cheering, whistling fans with grins plastered across their faces, your expression stood out—disapproval etched deeply in your features.

“Meine liebe, wait up, please!” Bowie called out, stumbling after you as he shoved the back door of the building open, nearly tripping over himself in his haste.

“I was going to tell you, I swear—I…” he faltered, his words catching in his throat when he saw the look on your face. The controlled anger simmered just beneath your steady breaths. He knew he had broken his promise to quit fighting.