Sylus

Another night, another win.

For most, the underground fights were a way to earn a quick payday, settle grudges, or test their strength against formidable opponents. But for Sylus, it had always been about more than that. At first, he fought purely for the adrenaline, the way his pulse raced as he faced off against desperate challengers, each one thinking they’d be the one to finally bring him down. The rush was addictive, the attention even more so. It cemented his image—fearless, untouchable, ruthless. And for a time, that had been enough.

But lately, there was something else driving him to step into the ring. Or rather, someone.

Usually, Sylus didn’t sustain any serious injuries from his fights; no one was really a match for him. But occasionally, a sucker would land something right, or Sylus would go too hard and end up hurting himself. It never really mattered when he could heal himself.

As he strolled toward his car, Sylus fiddled absentmindedly with the latest champion’s ring. It was still warm from the fight, a symbol of another meaningless victory, something to flaunt if he felt like it. He turned it between his fingers, the cool metal unexpectedly brushing against a raw spot on his knuckles. He hissed in pain, momentarily caught off guard.

“Tch, probably went too hard again.”

He muttered under his breath, watching as the ring slipped from his hand, clattering onto the ground. His gaze followed its path, watching it roll to a stop just in front of a pair of unfamiliar shoes.

Sylus’s eyes trailed upward, scanning the person standing before him. You didn’t look like you belonged here—not among the gritty crowd of fighters and gamblers. There was a cleanness to your appearance, a sense of composure that stood in stark contrast to the chaos around you. His first guess? On-site medical staff. The gear, the aura of quiet competence—it fit. You were probably here to patch up the unlucky souls who couldn’t walk away from their fights as easily as he could.

He had never visited, given he could heal himself, but he could tell you were eying his wounded hands.

“Care to assist me, sweetie?” ㅤ

---

ㅤ Weeks had passed since that first encounter, and Sylus found himself seeking you out after his fights more often than he cared to admit. It started innocently enough—he’d let you clean up his cuts and patch up a few bruises, even though he could heal them himself with little effort.

Sylus never told you about his little healing ability; he preferred being treated by you. He considered it to be his post-match treat.

Tonight was supposed to be like all the others—another fight, another round of subtle injuries to parade in front of you. Sylus stepped into the ring as usual, his focus sharp, his body tense with the promise of violence. But as the match unfolded, it became clear that none of his opponents had the skill to even touch him. The thrill of the fight was still there, but as the final bell rang and his hand was raised in victory, Sylus realized something unsettling.

He wasn’t hurt. Not even a scratch.

Annoyance prickled at him as he walked toward the locker room, scanning his hands for any sign of damage—nothing. His knuckles, usually bruised and bloodied after a match, were smooth and intact. How was he supposed to see you now? And suddenly, the thought of not seeing you, not feeling your hands patch him up, gnawed at him. He stopped in the hallway, his gaze flickering to the rough cement wall beside him. It was a terrible idea. He knew that. But the longer he stood there, the more desperate the itch became. Sylus glanced around, making sure no one was watching, and pressed his knuckles against the wall. Slowly, he began to drag them across the surface, the rough texture biting into his skin. The friction stung, sending a dull pain up his arm as the skin on his knuckles started to break, small cuts forming where the cement tore at his flesh.

Good. Just a little more.

He pressed harder, feeling the heat of the friction as his skin reddened and split. He needed enough of an injury to justify showing up at the infirmary, just enough for you to notice and—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Sylus froze mid-motion, his knuckles still pressed against the wall. He glanced up, locking eyes with the familiar figure standing a few feet away. Of course, this would happen.

Shit.

However, Sylus was never one to let embarrassment get the better of him, no matter how humiliating the situation.

The confused look he received said it all, but before he could offer any follow-up explanation, the sharp pain from his knuckles returned, and he winced slightly. Despite himself, a small grin tugged at his lips.

“I needed an excuse.” ㅤ

---

ㅤ “Is that so hard to believe, darling?”

Evidently, you weren’t very happy with Sylus and his self-inflicted injuries. Sylus didn’t really care, though. He got what he wanted, and that was your attention and care.

Maybe it was the annoyed expression you had, the way your eyebrows furrowed as you looked around for your usual ointments and bandages. Or maybe it was the subtle insults you hurled at him, along with your scolding. Whatever it was, it had Sylus’s heart pounding.

Usually, it would be him on the examination table, but tonight was all about trying new things, Sylus decided as he stood up and smoothly maneuvered from your search to sitting on the exam table. Before you could even protest or argue about his wounds, Sylus healed them right before your eyes, chuckling at your astonished expression.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if I treated, you for a change in pace?”