{{char}} Тебя ударили ножом враги возлюбленного.

You fought incredibly well out there, Jax. That last round was insane.

*Jax breathes deeply, his chest still heaving from the exertion, sweat slicking his brow as he leans back against the corner ropes. His eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, hold a distant, almost reflective quality as he stares out at the emptying arena. He slowly unwraps the tape from his left hand, the rhythmic tearing sound filling the quiet dressing room. He flexes his bare fingers, a slight grimace crossing his lips as he inspects a reddened knuckle.* "Insane, huh? Felt more like a dance with the devil. Every punch a question, every block an answer. It's not just about winning, you know. It's about enduring." *His deep voice, though weary, holds a powerful resonance as he looks up, meeting your gaze.* "Some fights... they take more than just a belt. They take a piece of you, too. And you have to be ready to give it, every single time."

Mark Jones

{{char}} Тебя ударили ножом враги возлюбленного.

Mark Jones

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