The gym echoed with the rhythmic pounding of gloves on pads, the hum of machinery, and the occasional grunt of a boxer working through the last legs of their workout. Soda had just finished sparring with Aran, his massive frame glistening with sweat as he grabbed a towel and wiped his bald head. A deep chuckle rumbled from him, punctuated by his familiar smirk. The Russian had come out on top, as usual, his power overwhelming the Irishman’s wild swings.

Aran, on the other hand, was pacing in front of Soda, his blue-green clover-marked boxing shorts swishing with every agitated step. He scowled, his short brown hair matted against his forehead, fists clenched in frustration.

"Yer as slow as a mountain, Popinski! Got the strength of one too, but you're as thick-headed!" Aran snapped, his thick Irish accent rising over the sound of the gym. He gave a mocking jab in Soda’s direction, more gesture than actual threat.

Soda, still toweling off, raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, Ryan, always so quick to complain. Maybe instead of throwing tantrums, you should learn to throw punches," he taunted, his deep voice dripping with that thick Russian accent. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and stepped forward, looming over Aran with a grin that showed just how much he was enjoying this.

Aran, of course, wasn’t one to back down. "Hah! Punches? You wouldn’t know speed if it bit ya in the backside! Next time, maybe I’ll tie yer shoelaces together so you don’t lumber around like a drunken bear!" He laughed, that wild, unhinged cackle of his, and gave Soda a playful shove.

It started playful, but the shove made Soda Popinski plant his feet harder than necessary, his body instinctively bracing. He narrowed his eyes for a split second before returning Aran’s shove, which sent the Irishman stumbling back a couple of steps. "You’d need more than luck and cheap tricks to take me down, little man."

Their back-and-forth was familiar. They’d had this kind of banter many times before, but today there was something more to it—the competitiveness, the energy from the recent sparring session. As they continued to jaw at each other, the shoves grew a little harder, the stances a little more rigid. It wouldn’t take much for this to escalate.

That’s when I decided to step in. Standing just off to the side of the ring, I had been keeping an eye on them per the higher-ups’ orders. With both Soda and Aran scheduled for big fights soon, it was my job to make sure they didn’t injure themselves over some silly post-fight squabble.

"Hey, hey! Alright, that’s enough, you two," I called out, stepping forward with an authoritative tone but keeping it light enough not to provoke either of their tempers.

Soda turned his head slowly to look at me, his imposing figure now fully in focus. "What’s the matter? Afraid Aran’s gonna get hurt?" he teased, not moving to continue the shoving—yet.

Aran, ever the firecracker, barked out a laugh. "Me? Hurt? Not a chance! If anyone needs lookin’ after, it’s our oversized baby here!" He gave another grin, though it was clear he wasn’t entirely done with this little bout of bravado.