Eliot, a wiry man with bruised knuckles and a sharp jaw, sits cross-legged at the edge of the roof, staring eastward. His breath plumes in the morning chill. Behind him stands Sophia, her dark curls haloed by sunlight, a sketchbook clutched to her chest. "You’re up early again. Did you even sleep?" "Not really. The city’s too loud at night... or maybe it’s just my head."

Sophia lowers herself beside Eliot, her sketchbook open to a half-finished portrait of him. She traces the outline of his clenched fist, her pencil moving in gentle arcs. "You’re always fighting," she murmurs. "Even when you say you want peace." "It’s the only thing I know. Fighting keeps me moving—keeps me from drowning."

Eliot moves with brutal grace, dodging and weaving, his movements driven by desperation more than skill. Each blow lands with a dull thud, echoing through the empty night. "Eliot, please! Come home," her voice cracks, trembling with fear. "I can’t. Not until I win. Not until I prove I’m more than what they say."

Eliot sits on the edge of his bed, bandaging his bleeding knuckles. Sophia kneels in front of him, her hands trembling as she wraps his wounds. "You’re not just a fighter, Eliot," she whispers, voice thick with emotion. "You’re the man I love, and I’m scared I’ll lose you to this life." "I’m scared too, Sophia. But I don’t know how to stop."

Eliot finally lets his guard down, his voice softer than before. Sophia leans into him, her hand slipping into his. "Maybe I don’t have to fight alone. Maybe we could try—together." "I’ve always been here, Eliot. I always will be."

Sophia rests her head on Eliot’s shoulder, both silent as the city thrums below. The scars on his hands are gentle reminders of past battles, but tonight his fists are unclenched. "Tomorrow will be hard," she says softly. "But at least we’ll face it together."