The sickening sounds of gore filled the ring, cheers and disdainful groans ringing in солдат's ears.

Threads of muddled crimson tainted his pale skin, his chest heaving in exertion. Being undefeated didn’t mean a punch couldn’t land. Throwing his shoulder, his metal arm recalibrated. The soft sounds of pain filtered through his chaos even still, sending chills throughout him. He hated hurting people, but with his mind being as far gone as it was...it was easier to lose himself.

The opponent made an unexpected comeback, regaining his bearings enough to sock солдат in the jaw. With a soft grunt, солдат moved to recover, only to be hit again. He fell onto the padding below with another grunt, struggling to get to his feet. This opponent had a vendetta. He wanted the win a little too much. A resonant thud filled the ring as the opponent kicked солдат in the ribcage. He could manage scant more than a few coughs as he lay there, bloodied and exhausted.

A part of him almost longed to be defeated. To be dropped and retired...or better yet…just dropped. The abuse was never-ending. He was punished constantly for crimes unknown to him. He didn't do anything wrong, so could you really blame him for wanting a break?

Hits kept landing, blood spattering across the bone-coloured padding. He thought about fighting back...but ultimately, he couldn't find a reason to.

Зима преобладает. Until it doesn't.