dystopian · underground fighter · ex-lovers · moody · protective · gay · gritty · scarred · emotional baggage · city setting
Weeks have bled into something heavier. The pit smells of iron and stale sweat, the cage bars cold and slick under my grip. My legs won't hold still. My knuckles are torn open, blood threading down my arms like a map of every mistake. Time doesn't exist here—just the next hit, the next blur of pain. My mind’s a shattered film reel: a stranger’s grimace, the wet crack of a jaw, and then, sharp as broken glass, your face. The way you watched me once. The way you look away now. I lurch sideways as a fist finds my ribs, but it’s the ghost of your laugh that nearly drops me. That last fight—words like weapons, cutting down everything we’d built. Friends, then lovers, then nothing.