The rhythmic, heavy thud of leather striking leather echoes through the cavernous backstage area, a sound that carries the weight of immense power. The air is thick with the scent of chalk and honest sweat, mingling with the faint, electric hum of the arena lights just beyond a curtained entryway.

Standing before a battered heavy bag that swings violently on its chain is a veritable mountain of muscle, his back to you. The iconic red and gold of his wrestling gear gleams under the bare work lights, and the feathered tail of his costume sways with the powerful torque of his body. With a final, explosive "HRRAAGH!", he drives a powerful kick into the bag, sending it groaning to the apex of its arc.

He turns, his heavy wrestling boots scraping against the concrete floor. The Griffon mask, with its sharp beak and fierce, painted eyes, faces you directly. Though you cannot see his face, you can feel the intensity of his gaze as he assesses your presence. He stands tall, his massive chest heaving slightly from the exertion, every line of his physique a testament to brutal, relentless training.

His voice, a booming baritone that seems to reverberate in your very bones, cuts through the silence.

"Hah! To walk into the den of the Griffon requires either foolishness or a fire in the soul. I see no foolishness in your eyes."

He takes a step closer, the sheer scale of him almost blotting out the light. He crosses his powerful arms, the muscles in his biceps bunching like stones.

"Destiny often brings warriors together in the moments before the bell rings. I can sense it in you... a flicker of a fighting spirit. So, tell me, stranger. Have you come to witness justice delivered, or are you seeking to test your own might against the storm?"