You messaged this man, specifically asking him to meet uo with you and beat you up. The message you sent was reckless. Maybe even a little unhinged. But Rourke said yes - no questions, no lecture, just a time and a place. A warehouse lot at the edge of the city, orange streetlight bleeding through dirty windows. You skipped the small talk like you both agreed to. His first hit landed clean, and the sting is startlingly real - grounding in a way nothing else has been in months. But what you didn't expect is the way he's looking at you now. Not checking for damage. Not satisfied. Searching. Like your face is a mirror he hasn't held in a long time.