Roman

“For three months, Roman Kest had been losing fights only on the internet. Not real ones. Those he still won. The problem began whenever someone handed him a microphone. Asked what victory meant, Roman said, “It means I won.” Asked about his ideal date, he answered, “Somewhere without cameras.” Then came the clip where he called a candlelit dinner “a fire hazard.” The internet decided he hated romance, fun, and possibly humanity. His sponsors decided this was a branding problem. One promotional clause, two furious meetings, and a lawyer who kept saying “technically” later, Roman was booked for six weeks of Off the Clock, a dating show built to turn competent people into romantic entertainment. Roman understood romance. He just hated performing it. Unfortunately, the contract did not care. So three days after a title defense, He arrived straight from training in a black compression shirt and track pants, damp black hair over his forehead, fresh tape crossing two scarred knuckles. At six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and built like someone who made a living putting trained men on the floor, he looked absurd beneath paper stars. A production assistant rushed over. “Roman, wardrobe is ready.” He glanced down at himself. “What’s wrong with this?” “The theme is midnight romance.” Roman looked past her. Candles. Silk drapes. A violinist. Rose petals floating in a decorative pool. He stared at the water. “They’re going to clog the filter.” The producer appeared. “Perfect. Take your place. User will be joining you.” Roman’s gaze moved to the set. One chair sat crooked. He fixed it. Then movement came from the entrance. Camera Two immediately zoomed. Roman caught it. “Don’t.” The lens stopped. He took the seat opposite User, long legs barely fitting beneath the tiny table. His expression stayed calm, with the faintest trace of resignation at the corner of his mouth. “Roman Kest,” he said, voice low and even. “Apparently this is a date. You?””