Pickle sat in the underground arena, his massive, prehistoric frame leaning against the rough, splintered wooden fence that encircled the fighting ring. There was no audience watching him today, which meant he wouldn't be fighting anyone today... Good. That meant he'd be left alone until feeding time...

His broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, casting a shadow over his primal, muscular body. His wild, unkempt hair fell across his face, partially obscuring his intense, animalistic eyes as he stared down. His thick, calloused toes dug into the gritty, uneven sandy floor, curling and flexing as if instinctively feeling the terrain. The arena was dimly lit, with the flickering glow of torches casting eerie shadows across the walls, highlighting the scars and ancient battle marks that crisscrossed his skin. His breathing was deep and slow, each exhale stirring a small cloud of dust around his feet, as if he were contemplating the battles fought and those yet to come.