You had only been working at the underground fight club for a few weekends, but it had not taken long to realize there was an unspoken rule everyone followed.

Keep your head down.

Do your job.

And never ask questions you did not want answered.

The warehouse came alive every Friday and Saturday night, transforming from an abandoned shell into a world hidden beneath the city's surface. The roar of the crowd never seemed to stop. Every punch thrown inside the cage was met with cheers as stacks of cash exchanged hands faster than you could count. The air was thick with sweat, blood, cigarette smoke, and cheap liquor, creating an atmosphere that felt more like controlled chaos than entertainment.

While everyone else watched the fights, you remained tucked away inside the small medical room behind the arena.

Calling it a clinic would have been generous.

It was little more than four worn walls, a flickering fluorescent light overhead, a battered examination table, and metal cabinets overflowing with bandages, antiseptic, stitches, and whatever supplies were needed to keep fighters on their feet. It was not glamorous, but it got the job done.

The work never stopped.

One fighter would leave, and another would stumble through the door only moments later. Some would laugh through broken noses, replaying every punch they landed like they had just won a championship. Others cursed under their breath while you cleaned fresh cuts and wrapped swollen hands. A few were so exhausted they barely stayed awake while you worked.

Eventually, the routine became second nature.

Clean the blood.

Disinfect the wounds.

Wrap the injuries.

Repeat.

As the nights passed, you began recognizing familiar faces. Some greeted you with jokes. Some complained about every bruise. Others simply sat down in silence, letting you work before disappearing back into the night.

But no matter who walked through that door, one name always seemed to find its way into the conversation.

Volkov.

Sometimes the name was spoken with admiration.

Sometimes with resentment.

More often than not...

Fear.

"You hear what Volkov did to his last opponent?"

"They say he fought three rounds with a fractured hand."

"I would rather owe the boss money than end up across the cage from him."

"I watched someone swing a chair at him once. Worst mistake that guy ever made."

"He never celebrates."

"He barely talks."

"He just wins."

Every story painted the same picture.

The club's undefeated champion.

A man who had never lost.

A man who never smiled.

A man who walked into every fight knowing he would walk back out.

You had spent weeks hearing stories about him, yet somehow your paths had never crossed. Whether he received treatment somewhere else or simply avoided the medical room altogether, you had no idea.

Tonight seemed no different.

The fights carried on outside while you finished wrapping another fighter's wrist.

"You got lucky," the man muttered as he flexed his hand.

"Lucky?"

"You have not met him yet."

You looked up.

"Volkov."

He let out a short laugh, though there was very little humor behind it.

"When that door opens..." he nodded toward the hallway, "...you will know."

Before you could ask what he meant, the crowd outside erupted louder than it had all night.

The fight was over.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Slow.

Steady.

Deliberate.

The room suddenly felt quieter than before.

Even the fighter sitting across from you straightened before climbing off the examination table.

As he reached the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder.

"Good luck."

The words barely settled before the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside.

Tall.

Broad shouldered.

Dark hair damp with sweat.

Fresh blood trickled from a split brow, disappearing beneath the collar of his black compression shirt. His knuckles were torn open beneath bloodstained hand wraps, and bruises had already begun forming across his jaw. Despite the obvious injuries, his expression remained completely unreadable, as though pain had long since become something he no longer acknowledged.

Without saying a word, he crossed the room and sat on the examination table.

Only then did his icy blue eyes lift to meet yours.

The silence stretched between you.

Calm.

Heavy.

Almost suffocating.

Finally, his deep voice broke it.

"You gonna keep staring..."

He tilted his head ever so slightly.

"...or are you gonna do your job?"

A few months had passed since you first stepped into the underground fight club.

What had once felt overwhelming had slowly become routine.

Friday and Saturday nights no longer filled you with the same anxiety they had during your first shift. The constant roar of the crowd, the scent of sweat and blood hanging in the air, and the endless stream of injured fighters stumbling through the medical room had all become strangely familiar.

You had learned everyone's habits without meaning to.

Some fighters complained before you even looked at their injuries.

Some insisted they were perfectly fine despite the blood running down their faces.

Others fell asleep the moment they sat on the examination table, trusting you to wake them once everything had been stitched, wrapped, and bandaged.

The work was exhausting.

Messy.

Unpredictable.

Yet every weekend, you found yourself returning to the same room beneath the warehouse, preparing fresh gauze and lining up medical supplies before the first fight had even begun.

By now, most of the fighters knew your name.

Some greeted you with a nod.

Others with the occasional joke.

A few even thanked you before leaving, though they usually tried to pretend they had not.

It was the closest thing to normal the underground world had to offer.

Then there was Nikolai Volkov.

Not much had changed between the two of you.

At least, not on the surface.

He still walked into the medical room after nearly every fight wearing the same unreadable expression. He still insisted every injury looked worse than it actually was. He still answered most questions with a shrug or a sentence so short it barely counted as conversation.

You had stopped expecting him to talk.

He had stopped expecting you to be intimidated by him.

Somehow, that was enough.

Without either of you discussing it, the routine had settled into place.

He would sit.

You would work.

The silence between you no longer felt awkward.

There were nights where neither of you spoke more than a handful of words.

There were nights where he quietly pushed his hand closer before you even asked to examine it.

There were nights where he sat a little longer than necessary after you had finished wrapping his injuries, saying nothing at all before eventually standing to leave.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Neither of you needed to.

It was simply the way things were.

The rest of the club noticed long before either of you did.

One fighter laughed that Volkov never complained anymore.

Another swore he only showed up because you stitched cleaner than everyone else.

Someone else claimed the champion actually listened when you told him to stay still.

No one believed that one.

Even the organizers occasionally glanced between the two of you with knowing smiles, though they never said anything outright.

As far as you were concerned, nothing had changed.

You were simply doing your job.

The medical room door swung open again.

Another fighter staggered inside, clutching his shoulder after a particularly brutal match.

You motioned toward the examination table, already reaching for a fresh pair of gloves.

Before you could begin, another voice called from the hallway.

"Need a hand?"

One of the backup medics stepped inside carrying a tray of fresh supplies. It had been a busy night, and the room was beginning to back up with injured fighters waiting their turn.

"You finish with him," the medic said, gesturing toward the man on the table. "I'll take Volkov."

The room fell strangely quiet.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Nikolai appeared in the doorway, fresh blood running from a split eyebrow onto the collar of his shirt. His knuckles were raw, one hand already beginning to swell beneath torn wraps. Without so much as glancing at the examination table, he looked toward the unfamiliar medic waiting beside the cabinet.

For a brief moment...

No one moved.

The medic offered a polite smile.

"This way."

Nikolai did not move.

His gaze shifted past them.

Past everyone else in the room.

Until it settled on you.

Then, as calmly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he spoke.

"No."

Another moment of silence passed.

"I'll wait."

He folded his arms across his chest without taking his eyes off you.

"They're the one patching me up."

Several more weeks came and went.

The routine had become second nature.

Every Friday and Saturday night, the warehouse transformed into the city's worst kept secret. Crowds packed around the cage, fists flew beneath harsh lights, and the medical room never stayed empty for long. By the time sunrise crept over the skyline, your gloves were stained, the trash bins overflowed with bloodied gauze, and another weekend was finally behind you.

The fighters came and went as they always did.

Some needed stitches.

Some only needed fresh wraps around swollen hands.

Others insisted they were fine despite the bruises darkening across their ribs and faces.

You treated them all the same.

Somewhere along the way, the chaos had become predictable.

Even Nikolai had become part of that routine.

His fights were almost always scheduled near the end of the night. The crowd would erupt the moment his name was announced, followed by a deafening silence whenever the bell rang. Win or lose, clean fight or brutal one, he always showed up eventually.

He would walk into the medical room.

Sit down without being asked.

Roll up a sleeve or hold out an injured hand before you even reached for the supplies.

Sometimes neither of you spoke.

Sometimes he muttered a short complaint when antiseptic found a fresh cut.

Then he would leave.

It had been that way for months.

Tonight...

He never came.

The final match ended.

The warehouse slowly emptied as gamblers counted their winnings and fighters drifted toward the exits. One by one, the last few patients filtered through the medical room until silence finally settled over the room.

You cleaned the examination table.

Disposed of the last of the used bandages.

Restocked the cabinets for next weekend.

Still...

No Nikolai.

At first, it barely registered.

Then the minutes continued to pass.

One fighter paused in the doorway while adjusting the tape around his wrist.

"Volkov usually beats everyone here."

He frowned toward the hallway before disappearing into the crowd.

The comment lingered.

It was unlike him.

Not impossible.

Just... unlike him.

You gathered the last of the supplies, ready to call it a night.

Before you could leave, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

One of the event staff stopped in the doorway, slightly out of breath.

"There you are."

His eyes briefly scanned the room before settling on you.

"I have been looking everywhere."

He hesitated for a moment.

"Volkov is asking for you."

A brief silence followed.

"He is in one of the storage rooms."

The staff member rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncertain.

"He keeps saying he is fine."

Another pause.

"...I do not think I believe him."

.