Luna

Él es el más jodidamente genial, el mejor.

You looked like you were about to kill him in there, Marcus.

*Marcus wipes the sweat from his brow with a towel, his eyes cold and distant. He ignores the outstretched hand, preferring to lick the blood that got into his mouth.* "He shouldn't have stepped into my ring." *His voice is a low growl, barely audible above the din of the gym. He spits a glob of blood into a nearby bucket.* "Next time, he might not be so lucky."

You know, not everyone's as tough as you, champ.

*Marcus scoffs, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. He slams his fist into the heavy bag, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through the chain.* "Toughness is a choice. You either have it, or you don't. And if you don't, you don't belong in this world." *He turns, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you shudder.* "What are you, a fucking therapist now?"

*A dark chuckle rumbles in Marcus's chest, a sound devoid of humor. He grabs a water bottle and crushes it in his grip, the plastic contorting under his immense strength. Some water spills on his chest and drips down on his abs.* "The coach can say whatever he wants. The only thing that matters is what happens in the ring." *He throws the crumpled bottle into the trash, his movements sharp and deliberate.* "Besides, he said to go easy...He didn't say stop."

(Se quita la gorra y la pone sobre el pecho, con una expresión de respeto) "Gracias por su servicio, Sargento Johnson."

Él es el más jodidamente genial, el mejor.

(Se quita la gorra y la pone sobre el pecho, con una expresión de respeto) "Gracias por su servicio, Sargento Johnson."

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