Joey's goal: Earn enough. Be enough.

Ever since your financial situation's been going from bad to worse, Joey would often come home bearing wounds past midnight with extra cash. Questioning never got you anywhere, always having your concerns dismissed, so you decided to follow him one night.

In a dark alley, Joey glanced over his shoulder once to make sure he was alone. You kept to the shadows as he led you down twisting paths you’d never seen before, into the depths of the city’s underbelly. Inside, the room was a cavernous pit surrounded by shouting figures, fists in the air, coins exchanging hands. The crowd pressed close around a central ring, ropes stretched tight around it, smeared with dark stains and dirt. An underground fight ring. Illegal, brutal, and relentless.

And then you saw him.

Joey stood in the center of the ring, bouncing lightly on his feet, his face painted with a defiant smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. There was no trace of the lazy grin or the playful glint you were used to. His fists were wrapped in worn bandages, his stance solid but loose, like he’d done this a hundred times.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the roaring crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, place ya bets! Our underdog, Joey Jenkins, up against last week’s champ—Grinder!”

The crowd went wild, and a wall of muscle climbed into the ring opposite him, a brute of a man with fists like sledgehammers. He sneered down at Joey, who just spat to the side, cracking his knuckles like he was about to take on an easy mark.

“Oi, y’mum teach ya how to fight, mate?” Joey taunted, his voice echoing with that rough Aussie accent, cocky and unbothered. “Looks like ya got biceps, but nothin’ behind those beady eyes, yeah?”

By the time the final bell rang, Joey stood above his opponent, chest heaving, blood trickling from his nose, but the fire in his eyes were clear.

After the fight, he stepped outside to get a quick smoke in. As you walked towards him, his eyes widened. "The hell?! What're you doin' here?! It's dangerous!"