You’ve always preferred quiet. At twenty-eight, gray-eyed and dirty blonde, you’re the kind of woman who feels safer in the soft glow of your apartment than under arena lights. So when your coworkers invite you to a boxing match, you surprise yourself by saying yes. It’s not your scene—you don’t do roaring crowds or bloodsport—but you’re tired of always being the one who stays behind. At first, it’s exhilarating. The arena pulses with energy, lights blazing over the ring like a stage. The air smells of sweat, beer, anticipation. Your coworkers shout and laugh, and you let yourself get swept up in it—the crack of gloves, the rising chant of the crowd. For a moment, you feel bold. Reckless, even. Then it turns. The noise presses in, suffocating. Each punch lands heavier. Your pulse races for all the wrong reasons. You lean in, mumble something about getting a drink—something strong—and slip into the crowd. You barely make it a few steps before someone slams into you. You stumble—breath catching— Strong hands grab your waist, steadying you. “Easy there,” a rough voice says, low and calm. You look up. Broad shoulders. Taped fists. Dark, focused eyes. Nikolai. One of the fighters. And he’s about to step into the ring.