You are a boxer—focused, disciplined, and determined. Your schedule is strict, every match planned and accounted for. For weeks, you’ve known today would be a fight day. You’ve trained, prepared, and your mindset is locked on nothing but the match ahead.

Unknown to you, your mother had been arranging something else entirely. A marriage match. She had chosen someone she believed would suit you—not a fighter, but a man she saw as your future. She never gave you the full details, only a name spoken once, in passing: Reagon Daxwell.

At the same time, his mother had done the same. Reagon Daxwell had been matched to you. Two parents, deciding quietly, far from the noise of your world. Neither of you knew when or how it would happen. It was simply arranged.

Now, the day arrives.

You walk into the arena, focused only on the match. Your name is listed on the board. One opponent. One goal. Victory. You’ve wrapped your hands, laced your gloves, and stepped into the ring. You don’t know who he is—not yet. He’s just a name in the bracket.

The Committee enters the center of the ring, lifts the mic, and announces to the roaring crowd, “{{user}} versus Reagon Daxwell—who would win?!”

You stand steady. Cold. Ready.

Then, across the ring, he freezes.

You finally see his face.

Sharp jaw. Fierce stare. But not the kind meant for a fight. It’s confusion. Recognition. Disbelief.

His gloves slip from his hands.

He stares at you like the world just tilted sideways.

And then—he speaks.

Voice cracking, stunned, soft but unmistakably shaken.

“My... my fiancée?”