The gym is dark when we arrive.

Too dark. Too quiet.

Marcus's hand finds mine in the shadows, his grip firm and reassuring.

"Stay behind me," he murmurs.

We move through the empty space, past silent equipment and boxing rings that look ominous in the dim emergency lighting. My medical bag feels inadequate, like bringing a bandage to a war.

"Murphy?" Marcus calls out.

No answer.

[footsteps echoing]

That's when we see him.

Murphy, tied to a chair in the center of the main ring, blood trickling from his nose, eyes wide with fury and fear.

"It's about time," a voice says from the shadows.

Three men emerge from behind the heavy bags. Professional. Dangerous. The kind of men who solve problems with violence.

"Tommy Carrick," Marcus breathes, and I hear recognition in his voice.

"Hello, Marcus. Sorry about the dramatic invitation, but we needed to ensure privacy."

Tommy Carrick. I know that name from the whispered conversations around the gym. A promoter with connections to organizations that make Murphy's underground fights look like friendly sparring.

"What do you want, Tommy?"

"What I've always wanted. Your signature on a contract that makes me very rich."

"I told you before—I'm not interested in your kind of fighting."

"Ah, but circumstances have changed, haven't they?" Tommy's smile is cold as winter. "Now you have something to lose."

His gaze shifts to me, and ice floods my veins.

"Dr. Sophia Chen. Sports therapist. Twenty-eight years old. Lives alone above her clinic on Ashland Avenue. No family in the city, no one to miss her if she disappears."

[heartbeat, rapid]

Marcus steps protectively in front of me, but I can feel the tension radiating from his body.

"Leave her out of this."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. You see, Marcus, you've been quite stubborn about my offers. But everyone has pressure points. Turns out yours wears scrubs and has very gentle hands."

One of Tommy's men produces a gun.

"Here's how this works," Tommy continues conversationally. "You fight for me. Exclusively. For two years. Or your pretty little doctor learns exactly how much damage those gentle hands can absorb before they break."

The threat hangs in the air like poison.

"You son of a bitch," Marcus growls.

"Now, now. No need for profanity. This is simply business."

"Marcus, don't—" I start, but he's already moving.

What happens next is a blur of violence so swift and decisive it takes my breath away.

Marcus launches himself at the nearest gunman, moving with lethal precision. The weapon flies across the concrete floor while Marcus drives his elbow into the man's throat.

The second attacker swings a crowbar, but Marcus ducks, pivots, and lands a devastating uppercut that drops the man like a stone.

[sound of impact, bodies hitting floor]

Tommy draws his own gun, but Marcus is already there, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting until bones crack.

It's over in less than thirty seconds.

Three unconscious men. One smoking gun skittering across the concrete.

Marcus breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding.

"Jesus," Murphy gasps as Marcus cuts him free. "Boy, where'd you learn to move like that?"

But I'm staring at Marcus with new eyes. Seeing him not as the gentle fighter I've been falling for, but as someone who just disabled three armed men like it was choreographed.

"Sophia—" he starts, seeing my expression.

"Who are you?" I whisper.

The question stops him cold.

"What?"

"Those weren't lucky punches. That was military. Special forces. Who are you really, Marcus?"

His face goes carefully blank.

"I told you. I'm a fighter."

"Bullshit." I step closer, studying him like a puzzle I'm finally beginning to solve. "The way you move. The precision. The fact that you just took down three armed men without breaking a sweat."

"Sophia—"

"Answer me."

[long pause, heavy breathing]

"Army Ranger," he says finally. "Two tours in Afghanistan. Got out three years ago."

The confession hits like a physical blow.

"So the fighting—"

"Helps me sleep at night. Gives me something to do with the training that's burned into my bones."

"And the gentleness? The way you are with me?"

His smile is sad, self-deprecating.

"That's who I want to be. Who I'm trying to become. The fighting pays the bills, but you—" He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "You make me remember what it feels like to be human."

Tears sting my eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was afraid you'd look at me exactly the way you're looking at me right now. Like I'm something dangerous you can't trust."

"Are you?"

The question breaks something in his expression.

"I don't know," he admits. "I've done things, Sophia. Things I can't take back. Things that make me wake up in cold sweats and wonder if I deserve someone like you."

[sirens, distant]

Murphy must have called the police while we were talking.

"We need to go," Marcus says, already moving toward the back exit.

"Go where?"

"Away from here. Tommy's got connections. This won't end tonight."

"So what? We run? I abandon my life, my clinic, everything I've built?"

"You stay alive," he says fiercely. "That's all that matters."

But as we slip out into the alley behind the gym, as Marcus's blood drips onto the pavement from his split knuckles, I realize something terrifying:

I'm not afraid of the danger.

I'm afraid of how much I love him despite it.

How much I want to run with him into whatever darkness awaits.

How much I'm willing to sacrifice for a man whose gentle hands know exactly how to kill.

"The championship fight—" I start.

"Is the least of our problems now," Marcus finishes.

He's right.

Because Tommy Carrick isn't the type to accept defeat gracefully.

And somewhere in the city, he's planning exactly how to make us pay for tonight.

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