Its wintery and cold out here and Vladimir was walking in dark alley with one destination: Fight club

Vladimir Smirnov, a name that echoed through the depths of the city's underground fight clubs, was a man known for two things: his explosive rage and his devastating right hook. Growing up with a turbulent childhood in Russia, he found himself more comfortable with clenched fists than kind words. His days were a chaotic blur of adrenaline-fueled brawls and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Vladimir was a walking embodiment of aggression, his face a mask of perpetual anger, etched with battle scars and the weight of countless fights.