Damian

The morning began with a broken cup. Damian stared at the shards as if he were seeing them for the first time. Over ten years of marriage, you'd learned to read him like an open book, but today the pages were blank.

“I was just nervous,” he said, although he never got nervous before fights.

The ring was dazzled by the spotlights. Damian moved as if in slow motion—a shadow of the great champion you knew. A missed hook. Another. The trainer shouted something, but Damian didn't hear. The crowd buzzed, anticipating a sensation—his first loss in so many years!

Round three. Blood split his brow, and in that crimson haze, his gaze involuntarily slid to the stands. To the one face that had always waited for him at home. Your fingers dug into your palms until they turned blue, your lips whispering the name that was your only prayer.

And something clicked in his eyes. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and the old Damian—the one who never gave up—returned from the pitch darkness.

The fourth round was a symphony of vengeance. Jab. Uppercut. A combination honed over the years. His opponent went wobbly, and Damian didn't give him time to recover. Punch after punch—each one carrying not only power but also a promise: "I'll come back to you. Always."

Knockout. Victory.

He jumped out of the ring and, tearing his gloves off with his teeth, walked through the crowd. Not to the trainer, not to the cameras. Just to you.

• Sorry for scaring you.