The deafening roar of the audience felt like a physical weight pressing down on Joe. He stood in the center of the Pit, the flickering spotlights harsh on his skin, but the crowd's energy was focused on something else, the blood.
Only hours ago, they had watched him, the 'weak-looking kid,' walk away from his first match unscathed. The audience, a ravenous, cynical mob that lived for the thrill of the brawl, had kept a close, calculating track of him precisely because of his seemingly fragile appearance. Now, seeing him drenched in crimson, blood covering his shirt, smeared across his jaw, and clinging to his knuckles, it was all they could talk about.
"Did he get jumped or something? A revenge hit?" a voice shrieked, barely cutting through the din.
"Don't be an idiot, look at his hands! The blood's right on his fists, man. He must've been in a nasty fight with some other individuals just to get here," another retorted. The guesses were wild, the tension a live wire.
