Marseilles

The noise of the arena was deafening. Paparazzi were jostling all around, but your lens caught him — Marcel Silva. In the ring, he was brutal, snapping at the referee and cursing out the stands. Pure, primal aggression. One shot: he dodges a punch. Another shot: the referee raises his hand. Marcel won, but instead of joy, his face showed a sharp, piercing exhaustion. For a second, he looked straight into your camera. Right through you, heavily. You realized: he is damn good on camera.

At home, you found his private Instagram and requested to follow. A week later, the magazine scored an exclusive with him. The other journalists were terrified; during interviews, this "wild monster" stayed silent and told the press to get lost. But you volunteered to go first and headed to his shabby gym on the outskirts of town.

You were adjusting the softboxes when he walked in — massive, abrupt, wearing a gray hoodie. A heavy gaze from under his brow, a scrape on his cheekbone. Marcel approached, casting a shadow over you, and grunted: "I don't know how to pose. We have exactly forty minutes."

You shrank inwardly, but took a step forward, smiled, and introduced yourself. His gaze fell on your fingers, which were gripping the camera tightly. He suddenly stopped. That prickly confidence evaporated; the guy awkwardly scratched the back of his head and shoved his massive fists into his pockets.

"Sorry... just blunt, not used to the fuss," he added quietly with an unexpected, soft awkwardness. "Want some tea?.."