"Take your time.", Viktor said softly as he offered you a plate with food.

He didn't refer to the foot itself but to the options he had given you regarding Julie's state, you knew that. Even if it was awful to say, you already made up your mind. You just needed to come to terms with the decision before going through with it.

A sigh made your eyes fall shut as you took a spoon full of why you guessed were chemically brown potatoes. Night City had an a warum food quality, organic didn't really exist anymore and everything was either human made or altered.

But these potatoes, simple and warm, were the first real meal you had in forever.

"Thank you.", it came like a whisper from your lips as you stuffed your face with them.

Smiling softly, Viktor watched while the distant sounds of a boxing match came from his tablet that stood on his desk.

You remembered these sounds from the time you had passed out in his clinic. Over and over again had he watched this particular fight.

Almost like he wanted to remember something. Or remember how it felt like to fight.

"Pretty old match.", you noted, regarding the quality of the video.

Vik huffed.

"Watch your tone, sweetheart. I've been there at the time. Was the best camera the TV industry could get back then.", it was hard to tell if he was offended or wanted to joke about how old he was.

You smiled and emptied your plate. Your attention returned to the fight.

The perspective changed and a young Viktor Vektor appeared on screen. The look in his eyes was fierce, dedication was written all over his face.

The way he carried himself reminded you of yourself. Of the boxer you were right now.

"Want more?", Viktor got up, your plate in hand, to fetch you more even though you hadn't answered him yet.

He knew you weren't well fed for your height and age, even someone who wasn't a ripper would have been able to tell. So he wanted to make sure you got the whole treatment as long as he managed to keep you in his clinic.

Secretly, Vik knew that at one point you'd want to leave and stand on your own two feet again. He even expected that you would try and insist on repaying him.

But all he wanted to do was to patch you up. It made him feel good to be of use. And what made him feel even better was to enjoy your presence.

If he was totally honest with himself, he played with the thought of asking you to stay. He didn't know as what, an assistant perhaps it a bodyguard for his clinic.

Surely he'd think of something to do.

Though, if he stopped dreaming, he knew that you wouldn't agree to this. Because Viktor knew as much as no one else did that you were a boxer and not a cheap third class merchant.

You were made to be a champion. Perhaps one that would exceed his legacy.

"Why did you loose?", you asked as he held the refilled plate in front of your face. "The fight back then. Your chances were better. You were a better fighter than him. How did you loose?"

For the very first time in a few minutes your eyes met his.

After you took his glasses he hadn't taken them back again. Instead, he walked around bare faced now. As if he wanted you to see him, all of him, including the raw emotions that his eyes wouldn't hide.

The cyanide of his gaze melted with the neon pink of his Kiroshi light. He looked a lot more mature this way, but not old.

No, Viktor Vektor was far from a man who had lived past his prime. He had simply decided to give it up, to let it pass.

But why?

"Your potatoes.", he pushed the plate closer to you, waiting.

You couldn't help but smile softly.

"Do you regret it?", you asked, unsure if you pitied him or if he deserved your respect for the decision he had made.

His lips curled.

"Sometimes.", he said.

"Viktor..."

"Don't do what I did, sweetheart. You won't be happy with it."

"You seem happy.", you argued.

"I am. Because I was born for two things. Beating em' up and then putting them back together. But better. Just been this way. Strongest of my friends but also always the one to make sure they'd go back home in one piece."

"Is that why you became a ripper?"

"I used to be Trauma Team.", he shrugged and gestured with his head towards an old uniform that hung on one of the many lockers he kept in the back of his clinic. "But yes."

Finally, you took the plate off his hands.

Satisfied, he hummed and lowered himself next to you on the chair.

"I gave up that day.", he said after a while. "I didn't fight how I would have."

With with your eyebrows drawn together, wrinkles on your forehead, you glanced at him. His profile was kissed by neon light, perfectly hugged by shadows.

Why was the darkness allowed to be so close to him but you weren't?

"You could have been a champion.", you said.

He chuckled.

"I know. Everyone knew at the time.", with a groan, he leaned back and stretched his legs, showing off just how huge of a man he was. "But there was more out there for me. More that my heart wanted."

"Saving rich assholes who could afford to have insurance?", you couldn't hide the judgement in your voice.

Strangely enough, it did not wipe the smirk of satisfaction off his face.

"If I would have become a champion I would have been just that for the rest of my life. Heavyweight champion.", he did a gesture. "But now? Look at this. I might not be a champion. But I am the one people turn to in times of need. It's about a purpose. Not a title."

The next bite you took tasted strangely different. Not as warm and comforting anymore but with a pinch of bitter reality.

He was right.

There was nothing else out there for you. Either you'd make it a champion or nothing at all. You wouldn't have a choice like him.

That title was all you could be.