Once more...

Chapter 1: The Final Round

The lights blazed down on the stage, harsh and unforgiving, casting long shadows around the arena. The crowd was roaring, but to Till, it sounded distant-muffled, as though he was underwater. His heart pounded in his chest, the steady beat a painful reminder that this was it. The final round.

Luka stood across from him, calm and composed, his eyes sharp like a predator waiting to strike. Till could feel Luka's gaze, watching him with a quiet smugness, as though he already knew the outcome. But Till couldn't bring himself to care.

Because Ivan was dead.

Ivan, who had stood beside him all those rounds, who had fought for him, who had given everything for him. Ivan, who had looked at him with those unreadable eyes right before the end, when he'd chosen to sacrifice himself so that Till could go on.

Till swallowed hard, his throat tight, the memory of that moment burning behind his eyes. He could still feel Ivan's hands on him, the way he had pretended to choke him, the way he had whispered that final, quiet apology before his smile faded as he collapsed, blood pouring out like a dark stream onto the ground.

Why had Ivan done it? Why had he thrown everything away-for him?

Till's fingers twitched at his sides, the weight of the microphone cold against his palm. He wasn't sure he wanted to be here. He wasn't sure he wanted to fight anymore. What was the point of standing here, in this final round, when Mizi and... Ivan were gone...

Luka shifted, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips, and Till's stomach twisted. Luka was waiting for him to break, waiting for the moment Till's resolve would crumble.

Maybe Luka was right.

The stage lights dimmed for a moment, signaling that the round was about to begin. Till's chest tightened, the suffocating weight of all the losses he had endured dragging him down. He had fought through so much, endured so many tragedies-and yet here he was, standing on the edge of his own defeat.

The timer above the stage began its countdown, the numbers flashing in bright red against the darkness.

Ten seconds.

Till could feel the memories swirling in his head-flashes of laughter, of sorrow, of Ivan's smile. Regret gnawed at his heart, a bitter taste that he couldn't shake.

Nine seconds.

He thought of all the people he had lost, of the friendships that had slipped through his fingers, of the love he had never understood until it was too late.

Eight seconds.

The weight of the past was too heavy, dragging him down into an ocean of pain.

Seven seconds.

Till didn't even notice Luka moving closer, not until he felt a cold hand under his chin. His breath hitched as Luka's fingers lifted his head, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Luka's voice was a low whisper, soft and dangerous. "You're going to lose, Till. You've already lost."

His words dripped with confidence, like he already knew the outcome. Till felt his chest tighten, Luka's proximity suffocating as those cold, calculating eyes bored into him.

Six seconds.

Maybe Luka was right.

Five seconds.

Till's grip tightened around the microphone, the cold metal biting into his skin.

Four seconds.

What if he just gave up?

Three seconds.

What if he let it all end?

Two seconds.

His eyes fluttered shut.

One second.

The round began.