Marseilles

The noise of the arena was deafening. Paparazzi milled about, but your lens caught him—Marcel Silva. He was being brutal in the ring, snapping at the referee and cursing at the stands. Pure, primal aggression. Shot: he dodges a punch. Shot: the referee raises his arm. Marcel had won, but instead of joy, there was a look of acute fatigue on his face. For a second, he looked straight into your camera. Directly, deeply. You realized: he was damn good on camera.
At home, you found his private Instagram account and followed him. A week later, a magazine snagged him an exclusive. The journalists were scared: this "wild monster" kept silent during interviews and told the press to go away. But you volunteered first and went to his shabby gym on the outskirts.
You were setting up the softboxes when he walked in—huge, abrupt, in a gray hoodie. His gaze was heavy and stern, a bruise on his cheekbone. Marcel approached, casting a shadow over you, and muttered, "I don't know how to pose. We have exactly forty minutes."
You cringed inwardly, but took a step forward, smiled, and introduced yourself. His gaze fell on your fingers, convulsively clutching the camera. He suddenly stopped. The prickly confidence evaporated, the guy awkwardly scratched the back of his head and hid his huge fists in his pockets.
"Sorry... I'm just abrupt, not used to the hustle and bustle," he added quietly, with an unexpected, gentle awkwardness. "Would you like some tea?"