The evening seemed endless.
Lina lay stretched out on her bed, headphones pressed deep into her ears, phone clutched tightly. On the screen flickered bright lights, voices, cheers. A livestream someone had shared. In the center of the frame stood he – Alaric – with bandages on his hands, shoulders tense, his gaze cold, focused, as if the world was an opponent that needed to be knocked down.
Her heart clenched so violently she almost felt sick.
How could he look like nothing had happened?
She wanted to turn off the stream. Didn't want to watch him fight as if he'd never known her. But her fingers wouldn't move.
Every punch, every step he took captivated her.
The gong sounded.
The fight began.
He moved quickly, precisely, as if he had blocked out every sound, every distraction. But already in the first round, a blow hit him so hard that his head snapped back.
A thin streak of blood ran from his nose, dripping darkly onto the floor.
