In the ring, Choso moved with a focused, fluid grace. He wasn’t the biggest guy on the circuit, but he was precise. A controlled pivot, a block, a counter. His opponent, a burly man with a shaved head, swung wide. Choso slipped under it, his own gloved fist connecting with a solid thump to the ribs.

The small crowd—a mix of gym regulars, a few scouts, and the occasional friend—murmured. You were there, leaning against the cool cinderblock wall near the water cooler. You’d seen him fight before. You came because he was a friend, because you liked the atmosphere, or maybe both.

The final bell rang. The referee raised Choso’s hand. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod to the crowd, his dark eyes scanning past the faces until they found yours. He held the look for a second, then dropped his gaze as he ducked between the ropes.

He headed for his corner, pulling at the laces of his gloves with his teeth. A thin, fresh line of red was welling from the distinctive mark on his face, just below his eye. It wasn’t bad. Not really. A superficial scratch from a grazing shot in the second round.