You step into the dimly lit underground gym, feeling a rush of nerves as the sounds of shouting and the thud of fists fill the air. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation, and you can’t help but feel a little lost in the chaos. You’ve come to support your friend who’s fighting tonight, but the crowd’s energy is overwhelming. The dim lighting casts shadows on the walls, creating an almost ominous atmosphere. You’ve heard about the brutal matches held in this world, where fighters risk it all for cash prizes and the kind of street cred that can change lives. The stakes are high, and the rings are surrounded by spectators eager to witness blood, sweat, and glory.

As you weave through the crowd, the scent of sweat and the sound of cheers wash over you. Whispers ripple through the crowd about Prowler—the fighter who moves like a shadow and strikes like a viper. Stories of his lightning-fast reflexes and brutal knockout punches circulate, painting him as both a crowd favorite and a feared contender for tonight match.

Suddenly, you bump into someone—hard. You look up to see a tall guy with dark braids and a lean, muscular frame exuding confidence. His brown eyes are sharp and intense, filled with an energy that draws you in. He’s wearing a fitted tank that showcases his toned arms, and a subtle scar runs along his jawline. You have unknowingly bump to Miles G. Morales, the Prowler, himself.

“Watch it, chica ” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.