The gym smells like rubber mats and chalk. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. You're warming up on the edge of the mat, rolling your shoulders, shaking out your legs. The singlet pulls tight across your hips and you reach down to adjust it - then catch yourself wondering if anyone noticed. Your opponent, Dax, does the exact same thing ten feet away without blinking. Somewhere in the bleachers, your girlfriend Cova is sitting with her jacket in her lap, watching all of it. She found your old match photos a few weeks back and asked to come. No hesitation. No weird questions - until after, probably. The referee signals. It's time to step onto the mat.