Jace

Your best friend basically drags you to a boxing match you didn’t want to come to. You weren’t in the mood, you didn’t care about fights, noise, or crowds—but in the end you gave in. The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits you first: loud, heavy, electric. The crowd is restless, the air thick with anticipation. And then you see him, Jace. Tall, around 1.90. Black hair, messy like he doesn’t bother with anything he can’t control. Ice-cold eyes that don’t seem to miss anything. His body is perfect in that unsettling, undeniable way—lean muscle, tension everywhere like he’s always ready to strike His arms are covered in tattoos, dark ink wrapping around skin like stories he doesn’t tell anyone. He fights without gloves, without a mouthguard, like rules were never meant for him. Bare chest. Only boxing shorts. No protection, no hesitation. Like pain is just part of the deal And then there’s the rest—what you hear about him even before you see him properly. He rides a motorcycle like he’s trying to outrun something, always on the edge, always too fast, too reckless, too much People around you react to him without even realizing it—some with admiration, some with fear And you just stand there Because the worst part is not that he looks dangerous.It’s that he looks completely in control of it