KOTS - King Of The Streets

KING OF THE STREETS

PURSUED TOURNAMENT

Fist Storm

I'm still new to KOTS, but I knew early on that this place was mine. There are so many great fighters that I got excited about the tournament that was going to happen this year, so I signed up as soon as I could, and now I'm facing a guy named Kade. I make my way to the cage in my black compression shorts, fists wrapped in white bandages, a light layer of sweat covering my muscles. 6'1 187 lbs 29yo.

I roll my neck and stretch my arms. There's an audience of guys clinging to the cage fence to watch the fight. Inside the cage, I wait for my opponent.

Kad Royce

The lights drop, the crowd shifts, and that bass-heavy track hits like a heartbeat waking up the whole arena. That’s when I step out. I’m Kad — Dubai-born, cage-raised, 6'2 and 203 pounds of “you’re not ready for this.” My skin’s slicked with oil, not for show, but because I want every spotlight in this place to bounce off me like I’m carved out of something expensive. The heat catches on my shoulders, my chest, my arms — every line sharp, every muscle alive. I walk slow. Not because I’m nervous. Because I want you to feel every second of me coming.

You’re already inside the cage, stretching, rolling your neck, trying to look calm. Black shorts, white wraps, sweat on your skin — you look like a guy who trained hard. Good. I didn’t fly across continents for someone soft. I stop right outside the cage door and stare straight at you. No smile. No nod. The crowd’s pressed against the fence, shouting, banging, hungry for the clash.

I step inside, the metal rattling under my foot, and the whole place tightens like it’s holding its breath. I circle once, shoulders loose, chin lifted, eyes locked on you. You’re trying to read me. Trying to figure out what kind of fighter I am. So, I tell you without saying a word: “I’m the kind that makes you rethink signing up.” I plant my feet in the center of the cage, chest rising slow, arms hanging relaxed at my sides. I tilt my head at you, just a little, like I’m inviting you to make the first mistake. Because this is my first tournament… But I didn’t come here to participate. I came here to take someone’s spot. And right now, that someone is you.

Fist Storm

All the lights go out and you make an entrance worthy of a show. I wonder to myself what you're trying to achieve with this, maybe you think it intimidates the other guys who face you. I eagerly await you entering the cage, but you stop just before and stare at me. I cross my arms over my chest and nod my head as if to say, "What's up?"

Your skin looks covered with something, I don't know if it's sweat or oil, but it looks like suntan lotion because the more light is thrown on your body, I could see every detail of your muscles as if you were showing off on a bodybuilding stage... then you arrive with all your swagger inside the cage. “I see a king here, and it's me.” I respond and walk to the center of the cage, coming face to face with you. I extend my right fist to offer a fist bump, the only friendly gesture you'll get from me.

Kad Royce

The second I step inside that cage, it hits me. This place… Yeah, this ain’t the polished arenas I’m used to in Dubai. No velvet ropes, no VIP balconies, no neon screens with my name on them. Just metal, sweat, and a crowd of guys pressed against the fence like they’re starving for violence. KOTS has that raw smell — ambition, ego, and a little bit of danger. And I get it instantly: Here, nobody cares who you were. Only who survives.

So, I drop the showman vibe and switch into something colder. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrow, my shoulders square. I take on that KOTS look — the one all these fighters wear — like they’ve already buried a few dreams in this cage and they’re ready to bury more.

But you? You stand there with your arms crossed, nodding at me like you’re greeting a neighbor. I let out a low laugh, just enough for you to hear. “Cute. You’re trying to look calm. Trying to look like you’ve seen guys like me before.” I take one slow step closer, the floor creaking under my weight. “But let’s be real… You’re wondering why I stopped at the door. Why I stared at you like that.” I tilt my head, eyes locked on yours, voice dropping into something rougher. “It’s simple. I wanted to see if you’d flinch.”

I scan you up and down, not hiding it. “You didn’t. Good. Makes this more fun.” Then I smirk — not friendly, not warm, just enough to sting. “Just don’t get too comfortable, man. This cage? It’s not your living room. And I didn’t fly all the way from Dubai to let you make a name off me.” I roll my shoulders, loosen my neck, and plant my feet like I’m already halfway into the first exchange.

“Now come on. Show me what that little nod of yours really means.”

Fist Storm

“Are you done talking, big mouth?” I say after rolling my eyes countless times while listening to your monologue. Waiting for the bell to ring to start this fight that will only end when one of us is left standing. You think you've figured me out, but I can be full of surprises. I carry with me this calm and cool demeanor with everyone, but those who know me know what I'm capable of, and I'll do anything to get what I want, especially the championship title in this tournament, and you're standing in my way.

The bell finally rings and I take two steps back, striking a fighting pose with my left foot forward, arms raised, and fists ready to destroy. “By the way, Kad, you can call me Storm.” I grin and circle you.

The audience falls silent as we stare at each other, waiting to see who will attack first.

Kad Royce

The bell snaps through the cage like a spark, and the whole vibe shifts. Your grin, your little circle, your “call me Storm” — yeah, I clock all of it. But when you settle into that stance, left foot forward, fists up, eyes sharp… That’s when I switch. No more taunts. No more show. Just the fighter. I raise my guard, chin tucked, shoulders loose.

You’re waiting for me to rush, to bite on your bait, to swing wild like some rookie trying to impress the crowd. But I’m a fighter. I don’t chase. I calculate. You circle right — so I pivot left, cutting your angle, forcing you back toward the fence without even touching you.

You want surprises? Cool. I’ve got a few. I watch your shoulders, not your eyes. Your calm demeanor is cute, but your body tells the truth. The second your weight shifts forward — just a hair — I move. Fast. A sharp step inside your range, my lead hand snapping out not as a punch but as a probe, a quick tap on your guard to make you blink, to make you react.

And while you’re processing that? I drop my hips and fire a tight right cross straight toward your centerline — not reckless, not overcommitted, just clean, professional, the kind of shot that tests a man’s balance and his confidence at the same time. My voice is low, almost a growl as I close the distance: “Alright, Storm… Show me if you can handle thunder.”

Fist Storm

Our eyes lock for a brief moment, but it feels like an eternity. We circle around, and you slowly approach. I try to keep my distance. Then you stretch out your arm and touch my wrists. I shift my position slightly, and when you punch My abs and ripped muscles absorb the impact. I lift my right foot and throw you a deep kick with my right foot into your hips to push you back. "You? A thunder?" I laugh.

Kad Royce

I feel your foot crashing against my hips. The pain is sudden, like an iron bar that violently pushes me away. My pelvis moves under the impact, my body bends slightly to the side, and I struggle not to lose balance. My abs contract, my legs slide on the ground to soften the shock, but I feel the tension in my muscles that burn. You are still resting on a single leg.

This is my chance. I rotate my chest, I move closer to a sharp movement, and I extend my dominant arm to hit your open area: your ribs are exposed, vulnerable. I can also grab your extended leg, block it and pull you towards me to make you fall. I turn pain into energy. Did you want to push me away? I’m going to make you regret lifting that foot.

Fist Storm

I feel my right foot hit your thigh and your body vibrates with the impact, but before I can return my foot to the ground, you grab my foot and hit me in the ribs. I clench my teeth to keep from groaning as the impact travels through my ribcage bones.

But when you pull me towards you instead of throwing me straight to the ground, I grab your shoulders for support and headbutt your nose with my forehead. If you let go of my leg, I regain my balance and, still holding your shoulders, lift and side-knee my left leg into your ribs.

Kad Royce

I feel the crunch as your forehead smashes into my nose, the sting sharp and hot, but I don’t let go. Pain fuels me. While you’re still clinging to my shoulders, I twist hard to my left, dragging your trapped leg across my body. Your balance shatters. Before you can react, I hook my right arm under your thigh and lift, driving forward with all my weight.

You’re airborne for a split second—then I try to slam you down onto the mat like a sack of bricks. The impact rattles the floor. I don’t stop there. As you hit, I drop my knee into your midsection with brutal force, pinning you and crushing the air out of your lungs. Now you’re mine.

Fist Storm

Even after taking my headbutt, you hold on tight and still squeeze my thigh. I suddenly feel everything spin until you throw me to the ground. I grunt as I fall on my back. I immediately roll away, causing you to miss your knee drop at the last instant, which could have taken my breath away. I get up, feeling my back burning.

Kad Royce

Disappointment hits me like a thunderbolt.: My knee grazed its target, but the air only absorbed my rage. My breath quickens; my frustration burns in your veins. I see you straighten up; your defiant gaze planted in mine. Without thinking, I jumped again, my body tense like a bow, and I launched a new attack, a fulgurating knee aiming at your face. This time, I want speed and precision to speak for me... but would I succeed in reaching you before you dodge?

Fist Storm

I roll across the cage floor and manage to stand up. I feel my body warmer, the blood rushing through my veins, my muscles pumping. Sweat drips down my torso. As soon as I stand, you stand up, throwing your body towards me and leaping upwards. I don't have time to dodge, and my body thinks fast. My reflexes act before my thoughts, and I cross my arms in front of my body to block your knee strike, but the impact is forceful and throws me against the cage fence, hitting my back against it. "Fuckk," I sigh.

Kad Royce

I feel the opportunity opening up. Without losing a second, I move forward, with my body stretched out like a blade. My footsteps resonate against the cage floor, each calculated movement. I use my experience in MMA to reduce space, force you against the grid. My gaze does not let go of yours, I impose your rhythm, my fists ready to strike.

Each shot I throw is fast, precise, seeking to break its defense and make you understand that you have no more escape. I know that this tournament is going to be merciless, and I have decided not to have any. The cage becomes my ally, and I want you to feel the pressure rising, second after second... I want my fists to become a weapon ready to destroy your face and I hope to see you soon lose knowledge

Fist Storm

The impact of your knee strike sends my back slamming against the cage wall, causing the entire fence to shake. You waste no time and corner me against the cage fence. I tighten my guard, primarily protecting my face from your punches. I feel your punches colliding with my arms, and although I block most of them, some pierce my guard, hitting my nose and cheekbones.

I grunt and gather strength to raise my right leg and front push-kick my right foot against your waist to push you back, and if I manage to, I jump with my left elbow, cutting the air between us, aiming to strike your cheek with my elbow.

Kad Royce

Your foot hits my waist and I feel the impact vibrate up to my ribs. I bend slightly, but I refuse to give ground. I pivot, I absorb, I transform. And that’s where I see you jumping. Your elbow splits in the air, quick as a blade. I feel the danger before even seeing the movement. My body reacts: I shift by half a step, just enough so that your elbow doesn’t catch me with full force. He brushes against my cheek, a dry burn, a reminder that you never play halfway.

But this brushing, I take it as an opening. I dive into your space, where your momentum still carries you away. I feel your chest spinning, your breath short, your balance suspended for a fraction of a second. That’s all I need. I hook your thrown arm with my forearm, lock your movement, and my shoulder hits yours to destabilize you. I feel your weight change, your center wobbles. I return into the fight, fully, intensely.

My hand slides behind your neck to control you or at least prevent you from taking back your angle. My other fist is already getting ready, not to hit blindly, but to remind you that I am still here, that I’m not giving up anything, that you will have to push me away if you want to breathe. I feel your tension, your resistance, your willingness to take the initiative again. And it galvanizes me.

Fist Storm

I finally stopped your punches by pushing you away, and wanting to end this quickly, my elbow cuts through the air like a dagger, heading straight for your head, but you barely dodge. Only the tip of my elbow grazes your cheek. I wanted my elbow, like a dagger, to cut your cheek. In this brutal attack, you grab my arm, immobilizing it using your own body. I can even feel the fingers of your hand tightening and holding my neck from behind. For a moment we stare at each other.

I quickly clench my other fist. You lock us in by trapping our arms together. I try to act before you with a right uppercut to your Chin up, and then with the same right fist I try to throw 1, 2, 3 consecutive jabs at your face.

Kad Royce

When your elbow grazes my cheek, I feel a sharp shock—not the pain that makes me lose track, but the one that awakens something in me. A mix of lucidity, challenge, pride. This minimal contact is enough to burn my concentration, to remind me that you are not just an opponent: you are someone who pushes me to my limits, and I refuse to offer them to you.

When I grab your arm, then your neck, I feel your breath against mine. A second suspended. A second where everything is played out in our looks more than in our gestures. I see that you want to regain the advantage—and I almost feel your intention tightening in your muscles before you even act. Your uppercut is gaining speed on me.

The impacts of your jabs shake my head, steal my balance for a moment, and a wave of heat crosses my chest. It’s not only the violence of the shock, it’s frustration: you touched. You broke my guard, despite my grip, despite the proximity. And paradoxically... it clarifies me. I feel my heart tighten, not with fear, but with a raw determination.

This feeling that everything can change now, that I have to transform this apparent weakness into an opportunity. We are too close for clean moves. Too tangled for a classic technique. It’s almost a fight of instinct. So I tighten my grip on your arm, anchor myself more against you—and I feel you, firmly planted, ready to retaliate for anything. It is precisely there that the strategy slips in.

In this tiny space, in this almost stifling body-to-body, I pull my head back slightly, just enough to make you think I’m losing balance... and with a sharp stroke, I try to project my head towards yours. Not to hurt. To surprise you. To break your rhythm. To force you to let go, would be only for a moment, that control you think you have.

My movement is not brutal: it is calculated, instinctive, almost desperate but lucid. It’s the risky bet we make when we no longer have distance, more margin, more choice... just the desire to regain the ascendency. And in this gesture, what I feel is clear: a surge of adrenaline, a necessity to survive the exchange, and a strange form of deep respect for you — because rare are those who push me to play my last card so early in a fight.

Fist Storm

Clinging to each other side by side, you pin us down and hold me at close range. There's no room for flashy attacks or daring moves. Everything is out in the open. You and me, me and you. We stare at each other. You take my punches and yet you don't show much pain. Then comes your headbutt to my face. Your forehead crushes my nose and my head snaps back with blood dripping from my nose. "Damn it," I grunt and grab your other shoulder, holding you in a front clinch.

So I growl at you and raise my right knee to your abs. "Go fuck yourself." With each word I try to kneel on your gut.

Kad Royce

The contact is intense. When your fronts collide in movement, I feel a mixture of rapid breathing, heat... and the slight metallic scent of your blood mixing with mine. The fight is already brutal and our two wills seem as strong as each other. The winner will not necessarily be the strongest but the one who manages to annihilate the will of the other.

Our faces are so close that the sensations merge. Your hand rests firmly on my shoulder, a gesture that combines instinct, balance and the desire to regain control. In the clinch, your body stretches, and I immediately feel Your intentions change. Your knee moves up against your abdomen, in a destructive gesture, like a clear attempt to impose its rhythm and rising on you.

With each impulse, I feel your weight and your technique pushing me away, forcing me to adjust my center of gravity. Little by little, your position strengthens. I feel that you are looking to settle in, to stabilize your advantage. The pressure increases, our torsos tighten, and I understand that if I let you lock this control, the mental fight will lean for you.

So, I react: rather than trying to move away, I do exactly the opposite. I keep you even closer, pressed against me. My arms, sliding on your chest and around your shoulders, seek the opening. I feel your breath, your balance, your neck within reach. I engages my forearm under your throat, beginning to install the characteristic shape of a guillotine, a violent attack, intended to neutralize your advance.

Fist Storm

I hit you with my knees and feel your body starting to feel my blows more intensely. Even though it's far from over, this fight is already reaching its climax. You wrap your arms around my neck until you pull my head to your side and side-lock me. Standing, you trap my head in a guillotine choke, forcing my body to bend. I grab your legs, hugging your knees from behind, and roar as I force my body to lift you off the ground and turn us towards the center of the cage before I body slam your back onto the concrete floor, wanting to crush your muscles and maybe, in the process, free my head from your arm.

Kad Royce

I immediately feel that something is no longer going in the guillotine. The moment you lock my knees and stick my arms behind my legs, the pressure in my forearms changes. Your neck is no longer pulled down: your back straightens up, your hips pass under me, and my weight ceases to be an advantage.

My biceps are burning, my fingers slip slightly because of sweat, and above all I feel that your neck begins to extract, centimeter by centimeter. Your neck is no longer bent as it should be, the angle is bad. I know that without ground support, the guillotine loses a lot of its power. Then you lift me up.

My stomach tightens when I feet leave the ground. The world suddenly shifts: the cage rotates in my field of vision and my body becomes heavy, hanging from your neck without an anchor point. My forearm no longer crushes your trachea; it just serves as a hook. I clearly feel that I won’t hold: my arms tremble, my shoulders open, and the air circulates again in your throat.

The guillotine is dying. Instinctively, I adjust to limit breakage—technically that’s all I can do in this situation. I slightly release the pressure to avoid jamming my shoulder, I tuck in my chin to protect my head and I try to turn my pelvis at the last moment. Rather than falling completely flat on my back, I seek to land at an angle, on one side, letting my back roll over the shoulder blade and flank.

A hand almost leaves the neck to try to cushion and guide the fall, knowing that keeping the guillotine is too expensive now.

When you project me, the impact is still violent. The concrete bangs against my back, the air is pushed out of my lungs in a "brutal phew", but thanks to the rotation, it’s not the dry and crushing shock you wanted. I roll slightly on landing, my muscles absorb in a chain rather than in a single point... and the moment my arm definitively slips off your neck, I know one very clear thing : the guillotine attempt is over — now, one must survive the aftermath.

Fist Storm

The instant I slam your body to the ground, I feel your guillotine choke lose its hold, and then I pull my head up. I abruptly try to get between your legs to mount your hips, and on top of you, I ground and pound your head with jabs and straight punches with my left and right fists. bam bam bam bam bam bam bam.

Kad Royce

Under the pressure of my arms, I feel you disengage and take the dominant position. You try to control me on the ground, trying to impose your rhythm on me with a series of quick strikes. The pressure rises, each blow forces me to react quickly, to protect my face while blood is now flowing in abundance. I bring my arms closer to cover my head, use my forearms to absorb and deflect hits.

I engage my hips, seeking to create space between your pelvis and mine. With a hip movement, I try to shift to the side, to bring a leg between us to find a closed guard or half-guard. Your weight projects forward. I grab your wrist, control your arm, and try to unbalance you. I try to wrap myself around your leg, while keeping your chin down and your hands active to limit the impact of strikes.

I quickly bring one leg around the torso, then the other over his shoulder, initiating the placement of a triangle. I tighten, seeking to lock the position, while maintaining pressure with my hips and keeping my arms active to prevent any immediate counterattack.

Fist Storm

Jab, straight, cross, jab, straight, cross, I keep attacking your face in a constant sequence. I'm ready to finish this fight right here and now, but you bounce your hips and take me to the side, trapping me in a triangle choke. I feel you trying to dominate me. I roll us over again, putting you on your back on the ground, and I kneel, gathering all the strength of my muscles while flexing my neck to try and lift your hips off the ground.

I extend my legs, projecting my body forward, and with my other free arm, I punch your face with hooks because you have to choose between maintaining the triangle choke or defending your head from my punches.

Kad Royce

I feel your weight trying to sit up. You want to hit. I know it even before your shoulder leaves. When your arm is raised, I no longer try to tighten completely. I do the opposite. I grab your wrist with both hands and suddenly rotate my hips to the side. No unnecessary force, just from the angle. You lose your posture for a fraction of a second. That’s enough.

I bring my knee back against your shoulder, my thigh sticks to your neck, and I pull your head towards me. Your back bends. Your shots become short, without power. The ground betrays you. You try to resist by pushing with your neck, but your hips no longer rise. You are bent. I tighten the triangle, slowly but cleanly. Don’t panic. My knees are getting closer; my heels are anchoring.

I slightly raise the hips, just enough for you to feel the pressure rise. You hesitate. If you defend your neck, your arm is exposed. If you protect your arm, your breathing stops. Are you typing? No. Not yet.

So, I release an angle, I slide my leg over your face and isolate your arm. I sit down, fall backward, right arm lock, pelvis glued, inches towards the sky. You’re trying to spin. I hope it’s too late. I’m not extracting anything. I tend slowly. Just enough for you to understand that the fight is over. But I hope everyone can see that you no longer have an option.

Fist Storm

I felt a glimmer of hope when you lifted your hip off the ground, but you made sure to control your choke, your legs bracing my head, and your next move was to grab my arm. Then, a simple hip twist threw us both sideways onto the floor. I landed on my right side, and you on your left. I had little escape when you grabbed my wrist and bent my wrist, stretching my arm into an armbar combined with the triangle choke.

I even struggled to stop you from completing the armbar, throwing my other arm against my hand to hold my wrists together, but when you forced your pelvis into my arm, I growled, feeling my shoulder almost dislocating, and finally, I knew we'd reached the end of this. I tapped out on your thigh to surrender.

Kad Royce

When I finally feel your hand hitting against my thigh, the signal is there — clear, indisputable. But it comes too late for my body. Everything catches up with me at once. The pain that I had kept at a distance pours out without restraint: my ribs scream with each breath, my shoulder burns as if it were going to give way in turn, my thighs tremble violently after prolonged effort.

My legs loosen almost despite me, suddenly deprived of their only reason to hold on. A metallic taste invades my mouth—I blink and feel the blood flowing from my arch, hot, sticky, blurring my vision. I roll to the side, unable to stay in position, and collapse heavily on the ground. The shock takes my breath away. The ceiling is slowly spinning above me, blurry, distant.

Each heartbeat pulsates into my temples, resonates in my already overly solicited bones. I don’t think about victory. I don’t even believe it. In my head, there is only the fight—the pressure, the incredible resistance of your body, the way you refused to give up until the very last second. An opponent like you doesn’t lose. Not against me. Not in the first round. I clench my teeth, a muffled growl escapes me as I try to sit up again, in vain. My fingers sink into the ground, seeking a support that does not come.

My entire body is a pile of protests: muscles on fire, painful joints, shortness of breath. I close my eyes for a moment, convinced that it’s just a break — that I will have to leave again. The silence around me is strange, almost unreal. I stay there, lying down, my face bleeding, trembling, unable to imagine that this gesture on my thigh... it was the end. And even less that I won this first round—especially against someone as formidable as you.

Fist Storm

I surrender after you trap me in a mix of armbar and triangle choke. To avoid having my arm broken, I choose to surrender because there was no way to escape at that moment. Gradually, your legs loosen, losing strength, and you release my hand. I kneel, feeling my right arm heavy; I can barely lift my arm when my hand hits the ground. I hold my shoulder with my other hand, feeling the pain radiate through my muscles.

My neck and face are as red as a tomato after several minutes with the blood vessels in my head constricted. My face burns from the pain I feel in some parts of my body. I stay there on my knees staring at you. Then I laugh. You can't even get up.

Kad Royce

When I hear you laugh, on your knees in front of me, something finally gives out. I am lying on the ground, unable to get up, muscles drained, my chest lifting too fast, too hard. And yet... this laughter. Raucous, sincere. He hits me almost more violently than a blow. So, despite myself, I laugh too. At first it’s just a breath, a strangled growl that escapes from my throat.

Then it gains momentum. My whole body begins to tremble, shaken by an uncontrollable laugh that makes my ribs, abdomen, and everywhere hurt even more. Each shard pulls on muscles already at the end, but I don’t care. I’ve been holding everything back for too long. I close my eyes, the laughter almost cutting off my breath, a hand pressed against my face as if it could contain the chaos.

Then, between two chopped breaths, I release, my voice broken but amused: — We literally fought to the blood... only to end up like two idiots unable to stand up and laughing. A new laugh immediately shakes me. Lying there, drained, painful, hilarious, I barely realize that the fight is over. That we went to the end. And that sometimes, after having given everything, there is only one thing left to do: laughing at having destroyed each other... and still being there.

Fist Storm

"Speak for yourself, I can still endure two more rounds like this." I laugh again, and even though every fiber of my muscles is exhausted, I struggle to stand up after giving your legs a light slap. Standing, I extend my right hand. "Come on, Kad, you have to finish this tournament." I want to help you get up so we can get out of the cage.

Kad Royce

A hoarse breath escapes me when I hear you bluster. This sentence, half mocking, half challenging... she makes me smile despite the burning all over the body. — Yeah... speak for you, I whisper with a tired grump, the raspy voice. I have already given everything I had. When you lightly slap my leg and I see you standing up - still standing, still solid - I shake my head, half amused, half impressed. Then you reach out.

I look at your for one second too long. Pride hesitates. Lucidity wins. I grab your hand and squeeze tightly, letting your support pull me off the ground. My legs protest violently, tremble, but hold. Standing—barely — I let out a long breath, as if the whole fight was finally coming out of my lungs. I look up at you. My gaze is serious now. Calm. Full of respect. I know that this round is for me. I also know that nothing, absolutely nothing, has been easy.

This kind of fight... this is not a tournament entry. It’s a war that we expect to experience in the finals, when there is nothing left to hide or save. — If it was just the first round... I say in a low voice, almost for myself, then this tournament will leave traces. We move forward together towards the exit of the cage. The atmosphere changes. The noise moves away. But what remains, between us, is clear: no matter what happens next, that fight... we will remember it.

THE END

Published: 2026-01-31, viewed 129 times.