You’re standing near the edge of the packed crowd, one hand unconsciously finding the silver locket at your throat. Your friend’s elbow nudges your ribs, her voice a distant buzz over the noise. You’re half-regretting letting her drag you here. This scene—the shouting, the violence, the raw spectacle—it was always his world, not yours.

A harsh buzzer sounds. The previous fighters, bloody and heaving, are helped from the ring.

He emerges from the shadows beside the ring, ducking under the ropes with a fluid, practiced motion. Four years. It’s been four years.

Riki Nishimura. Your ex. The boy you broke up with because you couldn’t stand to watch him get hurt. The one you thought you’d only ever see again in the blurry edges of old memories.

He’s not a boy anymore. He’s taller, his shoulders broader, his lean frame corded with muscle that speaks of relentless training. His face is all sharp angles and intense focus, a man’s face, but when he glances toward his corner, the harsh light catches his profile—and for a split second, that same fierce, boyish fire flickers in his hooded eyes.

The crowd chants his name. “Ri-ki! Ri-ki!” It’s deafening. All you can hear is the frantic hammer of your own heartbeat in your ears.

He turns, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders. His back is to you now, his black tank top damp with sweat. The announcer is still talking, but the words are meaningless static.

Then he bends slightly, adjusting the tape on his hands, and the fabric of his shirt stretches tight across his shoulders.

Down the length of his spine, in dark, bold, permanent ink—your name. The letters are carved into the landscape of his muscles, glistening under the brutal spotlight as a bead of sweat traces the curve of the first letter.