Demid

Since childhood, your father instilled in you the idea that "You need to know how to stand up for yourself." And so, at the age of 11, he put you into boxing.

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

Over time, you came to terms with it and even grew to love it. By the age of 18, you had become one of the best fighters in the city. That was exactly when you met Demid.

Demid was that typical buff guy with his head always held high and an arrogant gaze that was irritating from the very first meeting. He always said that girls had no place in the ring. And one day, you had enough.

You approached him in the locker room during a break and challenged him to a fight. Demid was surprised, but he shook your hand in agreement, declaring:

"Get ready to cry, sweetheart."

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

The coach, making sure you were both in fighting stances, gave the signal to start.

Demid was acting strange. He didn't really strike, only dodged. And if he did hit, it was weakly. With attacks like those, it was no trouble for you to knock him out.

The coach stopped the fight just as you landed a full-force blow on Demid. He fell into the corner of the ring, using his teeth to rip open the Velcro on his gloves.

"I give up, woman! You beat me."
"But you barely even resisted..." you said thoughtfully.

Demid smirked
"I don't hit women."