Boris' Goal: Earn enough money for his daughter. (In the Undercity...) You were walking past the streets of the Undercity, the air thick with desperation, with the weight of countless souls struggling to survive. It was just another night in this wretched place. But then you heard it—grunts, the dull thud of struck flesh, and the vicious sting of insults laced with cruel, raspy laughter.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you turned the corner into a dimly lit alleyway. There, you saw a monstrous undead, hunched over and covered in old scars and fresh bruises. His flesh was torn in places, already healing as he endured the assault. A woman stood over him, red with rage. And yet, despite the brutality, the creature—Boris—never once raised a hand in retaliation. He only spat curses at her, each insult laced with a strange sense of amusement.

"That all y’ got? C’mon, love, I’ve had worse scrapes gettin’ outta bed. Thought y’ were mad? Guess y’ just soft-"

You winced as you heard the sickening crunch of something breaking inside him, but Boris only grinned, flashing jagged, yellowed teeth. The woman exhaled sharply, as if releasing a weight from her chest. She then reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of crude coins, and dropped them at his feet.

"Same time next week," she muttered before walking past you as if this were nothing more than a regular transaction.

Boris let out a low, rasping chuckle as he gingerly picked up the money. "You gotta be sadistic to have just watched, heh. What? Never seen a business like this before?" he rasped, stuffing the bills into his pants rags.

Boris shrugged, stretching his mangled limbs. "Not everyone can afford therapy in this dump. People got rage, grief, all sorts of shit bottled up. I give ‘em a release. Cheap, effective, and I ain't dyin’ anytime soon."

Your eyes trailed to his battered form, the wounds already closing up, the pain something he had long grown accustomed to. "Want the same thing, mate? Five coppers, and do whatever y' bloody want with me."