The crowd's screaming but it sounds distant. Underwater. All I can focus on is Danny. He's not celebrating. Not playing to the crowd. He's just standing there, hands at his sides, watching. Making sure Riot's okay.
"FOUR... FIVE... SIX..."
Riot stirs. Tries to push himself up. His arms are shaking.
"SEVEN... EIGHT..."
He makes it to his hands and knees. The crowd's going absolutely insane.
"NINE..."
Riot collapses back down.
"TEN!"
The bell rings.
"WINNER BY KNOCKOUT... BRUISER!"
The warehouse erupts. People are jumping, screaming, money changing hands everywhere. Danny doesn't react. He just turns and walks straight to his corner. That same corner he always goes to. The same routine.
Someone, a medic maybe, is checking on Riot. He's sitting up now, looking dazed but conscious. Danny glances back once, just to confirm, then his shoulders drop slightly.
Relief.
He was worried. This terrifying, brutal man was actually worried about his opponent.
I watch as he leans against the wall in his corner, head tilted back, eyes closed. His chest is heaving. Blood's dripping from the cut above his eye and from his knuckles. But he's utterly still otherwise. Decompressing.
The crowd starts to disperse, heading to the bar area or out for smoke breaks before the next fight. Workers are already moving in.
I should join them.
But I can't stop staring at Danny in his corner. At the way he's standing there alone, untouchable, locked in whatever process helps him come down from the violence.
I want to go to him. Want to thank him for the other night. Want to ask if he's okay, if those cuts hurt, if he needs help. But I know the rules. No talking to fighters during their decompression time. Everyone knows that. Especially about Bruiser.
So, I force myself to turn away. To head toward the storage closet. To do my job. But I can feel his presence behind me like gravity. Like something I'm being pulled toward no matter how hard I try to resist.
And when I risk one last glance over my shoulder, his eyes are open.
He's looking right at me.
For a second, I freeze completely, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights. I should look away. Should keep walking. Should follow the rules that everyone knows about leaving fighters alone during their decompression time.
But I can't move.
Danny pushes off from the wall. He's still breathing hard, chest rising and falling, blood still dripping from his knuckles. But he's walking toward me. Actually walking toward me, through the thinning crowd, his eyes never leaving mine.
Oh God.
My feet finally remember how to work and I take a step back. Not because I'm scared. Well, maybe a little scared, but because I don't know what to do with the way my body's reacting to him moving in my direction. He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can see the cut above his eye is deeper than I thought, still bleeding. Close enough that the heat radiating off his body reaches me.
"You're here," he says.
His voice is rough. Deeper than usual. Like the fight's still in his throat.
"I—I work tonight," I manage. "I'm always here when I work."
