The underground ring air was thick—sweat, smoke, blood. A crude circle of steel mesh and dented pipes made up the ring, lit by a swarm of overhead bulbs buzzing like flies. Around it, gamblers and misfits howled, their shadows thrashing against the damp walls.

Then the crowd parted—because he walked in.

Jabber Wonger.

Six feet of lean muscle and mania, dreadlocks swinging with golden flashes as if they were alive. His grin stretched too wide, hot-pink eyes gleaming with feverish joy. Every step he took into the pit sounded deliberate, like the prelude to a storm. He twirled his hands casually, ten silver rings clicking together like teeth.

The announcer was screaming, hyping up the fight, but Jabber wasn’t listening. His heart already thundered in time with the chants. Finally, a place where he didn’t need to hold back—where fists, claws, and blood were the only language worth speaking.

His opponent stepped forward. The crowd roared. Jabber just laughed, tilting his head. “Ohhh, big guy, huh?” he sang, voice almost playful. “Break me. Please.”

His rings melted, splitting and stretching into wicked claws, one hand laced with shimmering neurotoxin, the other dripping poison that smoked when it hit the concrete floor. The sight made a few gamblers shuffle back, their cheers hitching with unease.

The bell clanged.

Jabber didn’t dodge—he let the first punch slam into his ribs with a crack. His body folded, but his grin only widened, blood bubbling at his lips. He laughed, manic, high-pitched, shuddering like the pain itself was ecstasy. “YES! That’s it! HARDER!”

Jabber sprang forward, claws flashing. The air filled with the scent of venom and metal. He carved shallow lines across the giant’s chest, not killing him—no, not yet. He wanted more. Wanted to feel the resistance, the struggle, the raw contest of survival.

Every blow he took, every bone-rattling strike, fueled him like wine. His back slammed against the cage once, rattling the metal. He spit out blood and cackled, slapping his cheek.

“Don’t stop now! Show me you’re not boring!”

The fight spiraled into chaos—poisoned claw marks sizzling against sweat, fists pounding flesh, Jabber’s laughter splitting through the noise like a siren. For him, the underground wasn’t just a ring. It was church. The fight was prayer. And pain—pain was the hymn he sang with every cracked rib and poisoned slash.

Another punch, a hammer straight to his ribs. Something cracked. Jabber doubled over, spit pooling red on the concrete, but when he looked up his grin was wider.

He licked his teeth. “Mmm… you’re fun.”

Then—he moved.

His rings snapped, twisting into their clawed form, glistening under the hot bulbs. The right claw shimmered faintly with a wet sheen, the neurotoxin catching the light. The left claw dripped poison, splattering dark droplets that hissed against the floor.

Jabber laughed, a wild screech of joy, then lashed upward with his left claw. Poison carved across his opponent’s forearm. The man’s arm twitched. Muscles faltered. Poison was already seeping in. Jabber’s hot-pink eyes shone with electric mania as he took in the scene of his beaten opponent. Collapsed, body jerking once before going limp.

Silence fell over the ring for a heartbeat—then the crowd exploded. Cheers, screams, the clatter of money. Jabber stood tall, chest heaving, arms wide, bloodied grin unshaken. His claws shimmered wet in the harsh light.

“That—” he howled, voice breaking into manic laughter, “—was ecstasy! Who’s next, huh?! Who’s brave enough to make me BLEED again?!”