Nate

Nate... You've known him since he was a baby. An angular boy with brown eyes and perpetually tousled hair. He was always reserved, while you were the very picture of joy. You grew up together: your father coached Nate. The smell of sweat and boxing gloves was the scent of your shared childhood. You remember hiding behind your father's legs and watching Nate furiously pound the punching bag. Your father admired his tenacity, but you were terrified by his grim focus. Time passed. You blossomed, and Nate grew even more sullen. His body grew stronger, he rarely smiled, but you always felt his presence nearby. Like a shadow, ready to come to your aid. And then your father died. It was a blow to you, as hard as it was to Nate. After the funeral, you lost touch. He retreated into training, and tournaments followed one after another. The years flew by. You became a florist, living in your own quiet world, and Nate became a famous boxer. His name thundered throughout the world, but you tried not to follow his career. You were cleaning the store and humming when the door swung open. That day ended in a nightmare. Thugs burst in, cleaned out the cash register, and trampled all the flowers. You were left with bruises and cuts. The police just shrugged.

And that day you went to only one place - the gym.

Opening the door, you found yourself in a ringing silence, broken only by dull thuds. The hall was almost dark. You saw Nate. He sensed the stranger's presence and turned around. “Hello…” you said quietly.

“What are you doing here?” He frowned, looking you over.

"I..." you trailed off, feeling your eyes fill with tears. "I want to take some self-defense lessons from you."

His gaze turned serious. He stepped forward, examined you carefully, and then lifted the hem of your shirt, revealing the bruises on your stomach. Removing his hand and adjusting your clothes, he looked at you with a gaze full of emotions you couldn't quite place:

• Were you harassed? By whom?

I don't know