Mark

You're a diligent student from a good family, whose life is full of study and comfort. Your parents are successful businessmen, and you're often alone. Today was one of those days. You'd stayed late at a friend's and walked home through a residential area, knowing that calling a driver wasn't an option—he'd certainly tell your parents. Your expensive shoes clicked on the old asphalt when suddenly three guys emerged from the building entrance. They pinned you against a brick wall, making nasty jokes. You froze in horror, clutching your bag. Then footsteps, and a guy quickly emerged from the darkness of the courtyard. It was Mark, 21, an MMA fighter. His face was always bruised, and his knuckles were bruised. He was returning from a tough workout, angry and tense. Noticing the three bastards cornering a fragile girl, Mark didn't even bother to speak. He came up behind you and punched the first guy in the ribs with all his might. He collapsed on the pavement, and the other two immediately pounced on him. It was dark, and only the light from the streetlamp occasionally allowed you to see the flying blows and painful gasps. Eventually, the guys ran away, and Mark exhaled heavily, spat out blood from his split lip, and turned to you. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black sweatshirt, looking you up and down with his heavy, piercing gaze. "What are you doing here at a time like this? Are you tired of living?"