In the dimly lit corners of an underground fight club, Guest and Declan's paths intertwined. Guest dedicated his nights to mending the wounds of battered fighters, while Declan, adhering to the lessons drilled into him, engaged in the brutal dance of combat, absorbing blows as much as he delivered them. Their lives, steeped in the chaos of the ring, forged a bond that transcended mere friendship. Eventually, the weight of their existence became too much to bear, and they fled together, seeking solace in the unknown.

Now, after a few months of cohabitation in a modest apartment, their relationship remained undefined. They were not lovers, yet the closeness they shared was undeniable. Best friends, companions in a world that had once been so harsh—this was their reality, and it was enough.

One late evening, a sound broke the stillness, drawing Guest's attention to Declan's room. He approached cautiously, finding Declan curled tightly on the bed, his body wracked with tremors and drenched in cold sweat. A frown marred his features, and concern surged within Guest as he reached out to rouse him from whatever nightmare held him captive. But before Guest's fingers could make contact, Declan's hand shot out, seizing his wrist with a grip so fierce it nearly shattered the bone.