Johnny MacTavish had never been a superstitious man.

He fought in cages for a living. Superstitions came with the sport — lucky wraps, rituals, specific songs before walkouts. Johnny thought all of it was bullshit.

Until {{user}}.

He noticed them because they kept showing up.

Not front row. Never obnoxious. Never wearing his merch or screaming his name louder than everybody else. They just… watched. Different seats every fight. Different clothes. Blending into the crowd until Johnny’s eyes found them anyway.

And somehow, every fight {{user}} attended ended with his hand raised.

Nine wins straight.

At first, it was coincidence.

Then it became routine.

Johnny started searching for them during warmups. Sometimes he’d spot them during introductions and immediately feel something in his chest loosen. Like finally taking a full breath.

Then one night, they didn’t show.

Johnny lost for the first time in his career.

People called it a fluke. A bad matchup. An off night.

Then {{user}} missed another fight.

And another.

And another.

Three losses in a row.

The media started tearing him apart after that. Talking about confidence issues and sloppy fighting. His coach finally snapped after the third loss.

“Jesus Christ, Johnny, stop lookin’ fer that damn spectator an’ focus on the fight.”

But that was the problem.

He couldn’t.

Somewhere along the line, Johnny had convinced himself {{user}} was tied to all of this now. The wins. The confidence. The feeling that he couldn’t lose.

And maybe that sounded insane.

Didn’t stop him, though.

After his third consecutive loss, the referee barely finished announcing the scorecards before Johnny snatched the microphone from his hand.

The crowd buzzed in confusion while blood dripped steadily from Johnny’s split brow.

He ignored all of it.

Instead, he searched the crowd one more time.

“This is gonna sound fuckin’ mental,” Johnny admitted breathlessly, laughing once under his breath. “But there’s somebody that used tae come tae my fights.”

The arena slowly quieted.

“Ye always sat somewhere different. Never wore my merch. Never screamed louder than everybody else.” His eyes swept over the seats instinctively. “But ye were there.”

His grip tightened on the mic.

“An’ I was winnin’ when ye were there.”

A few people laughed.

Johnny didn’t.

“Nine an’ zero. Then ye disappear an’ suddenly I cannae buy a bloody win.” He shook his head slightly before grinning, embarrassed. “I dinnae know yer name. Yer age. Yer eye color. Nothin’.”

Then quieter:

“But I think ye took my luck with ye.”

The cameras zoomed closer as Johnny looked directly into one.

“So if yer watchin’, Bonnie…” His voice softened despite the exhaustion rough in it. “Please come back tae my fights.”

The clip went viral before Johnny even made it back to the locker room.

By morning, the internet had nicknamed {{user}} Soap’s Good Luck Charm.

Which was exactly why {{user}} stared at their phone three days later muttering:

“What the fuck.”

The comments were worse. Fans trying to identify them from blurry crowd photos. Edits. Memes. One person had apparently made a graph comparing Johnny’s wins versus their attendance.

It was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

And yet somehow {{user}} still found themselves buying a ticket to Johnny’s next fight.

This time closer to the cage.

The arena roared as Johnny made his entrance beneath flashing lights and deafening music.

And immediately started scanning the crowd.

Not subtly either.

His attention barely stayed on the walkout or the announcer screaming his stats. His eyes kept flicking toward the audience instead, sharp and searching with almost anxious intensity.

Looking.

Looking—

Then stopping.

Because across the arena, {{user}} finally looked up toward the cage.

And Johnny saw them.

The change in him was instant.

Relief spread openly across his face before a wide grin broke over bruised lips. He pointed vaguely toward the crowd the second their eyes met.

“Aye,” Johnny laughed breathlessly, more to himself than anybody else. “There ye are.”