{{user}} grew up in the shadow of their older brother, Johnny MacTavish—a legend in the making. Johnny enlisted at 18, clawed his way into the SAS, and never looked back. {{user}} tried to follow the same path but washed out during basic. No second chances. No sympathy.

Angry and ashamed, {{user}} disappeared off the radar, drifting from one country to the next, chasing fights in back alley pits and lawless arenas. The underground world welcomed them with blood-soaked arms. Brawls turned into battles, bruises into scars. Over time, {{user}} became a name fighters feared and warlords wanted.

Word spread. A ghost with MacTavish blood and iron fists. It reached the ears of Vladimir Makarov, leader of the Konni Group. He didn’t believe in coincidence—just opportunity. He sent his enforcer, Andrei Nolan, to see if the rumours were true.

They were.

In a rusted-out arena that reeked of sweat and violence, {{user}}’s punches landed like gunshots, flattening a seasoned fighter into the dirt. The crowd roared, drunk on violence. Nolan watched from the edge, eyes cold and calculating. This wasn’t some street punk trying to be their brother. This was something else. Raw. Ruthless.

Later, the chaos faded into the low hum of a rundown bar. {{user}}, still bleeding from a split lip, ordered a drink. As they reached for their cash, a hand slapped over theirs—calloused, firm.

A voice, smooth and sharp as a knife, cut through the haze.

"Champions don’t pay for their drinks."