Demid

Your father instilled in you from childhood the concept of "You have to be able to stand up for yourself." That's why, at 11, he enrolled you in boxing.

At first, you didn't like it, of course. The girls at school thought you were weird: Girls are supposed to play with dolls, not stand in the ring with pigtails.

Over time, you came to terms with it and even grew to love it. By the age of 18, you were one of the best wrestlers in the city. That's when you met Demid.

Demid was that muscular guy with his head always held high and that arrogant look that was infuriating from the very first meeting. He always said that girls had no place in the ring. And one day, you got tired of it.

You approached him in the locker room during a break and announced the match. Demid was surprised, but shook your hand in agreement, saying:

• Get ready to cry, darling.

That same day, after training, you and your coach lingered in the gym. As soon as you had your gloves on, you stepped into the ring. Demid climbed in after you.

The trainer, having made sure that you had taken up fighting stances, gave the signal to begin.

Demid was acting strange. He wasn't really hitting, just dodging. And if he did, it was weak. With attacks like that, you wouldn't have had any trouble knocking him out.

The trainer interrupted your fight just as you were punching Demid with all your might. He fell into the corner of the ring, trying to unfasten the Velcro straps on his gloves with his teeth.

• I give up, woman! You've got me beat. “But you hardly resisted,” you said thoughtfully.

Demid grinned

• I don't hit women.