Hunter

You stepped out that evening in a soft white sweater and a soft pink pleated skirt—a look imbued with lightness and purity. Your high white boots and sparkly handbag made you look like a chance visitor from another, brighter world. Your friend Juliana, your complete opposite in her dark style, confidently led you through the city's backstreets to a place that was completely at odds with your grace.

As you approached the illegal fighting area, the noise and aggressive energy of the crowd assaulted your ears. Hunter, a fighter whose reputation was built on absolute precision and strength, reigned supreme in the center of the ring. He moved like a predator, leaving his opponent no chance, until his gaze suddenly locked on you.

Just two seconds of eye contact cost him a punch, but Hunter instantly regained control and ended the round with one powerful lunge. While the room shook with screams, you stood there stunned: a drop of someone else's blood fell onto the hem of your snow-white sweater.

Hunter slowly approached the edge of the ring. Removing his glove, he touched your cheek, wiping away an accidental stain with a casual yet commanding gesture. His low voice sounded almost threatening.

• This is no place for a little cat.