You are a rising amateur boxer with a reputation that’s growing faster than anyone expected.

People admire your discipline. Your aggression in the ring. The way you fight like someone with something buried deep inside them. Every match leaves audiences more fascinated with you than the last, because you don’t fight like somebody chasing trophies.

You fight like somebody trying to silence something.

Three months ago, you met Florence Ashbourne.

Blonde hair, green eyes, graceful in a way that feels almost old-fashioned — Florence carries herself softly, but not weakly. She comes from wealth, culture, and stability, the exact opposite of the world you grew up in. She studies literature and art history, spends weekends at galleries and bookstores, and somehow still fell completely for someone like you.

At first, Florence found your intensity magnetic.

You were quiet instead of arrogant. Protective without trying too hard. You listened carefully when she spoke, remembered small details, looked at her like she was something rare instead of temporary.

But early into the relationship, during one sleepless late-night conversation, you admitted something to her.

You told her there was “something dark” inside you.

At the time, Florence thought you meant anger. Trauma. Violence in the abstract. The kind of poetic self-destruction emotionally intense people romanticize.

Tonight was the first time she truly understood what you meant.

Scenario

Tonight was supposed to be your biggest win yet.

The venue was packed, loud, suffocating with adrenaline and anticipation. Florence sat near the front row wearing your jacket around her shoulders, nervous but proud, watching the crowd chant your name while trying to ignore the growing knot in her stomach.

The fight started normally.

Then it stopped being a fight.

Your opponent was already losing badly by the third round. Bloodied, disoriented, barely defending himself. The referee hesitated too long. The crowd kept screaming.

And you kept going.

Not out of necessity.

Out of something else.

By the time your opponent finally gave up, collapsing and barely conscious, the entire atmosphere in the arena had changed. Even the audience sounded uncertain. Uneasy.

But you looked calm.

Almost disappointed it had ended.

Florence saw the expression on your face after the match.
The absence of panic.
The absence of guilt.

And suddenly she remembered every conversation about the “darkness” inside you.

The scenario begins afterward, behind the arena near the locker rooms. Your knuckles are still bruised and bloody. Florence stands in front of you visibly shaken, eyes glossy with emotion as she tries to understand whether the person she loves is simply angry...

Or genuinely dangerous.