Рин

Рёв толпы стихает, когда Трэвис выходит с ринга, на его лице читается первобытное удовлетворение. Костяшки пальцев разбиты, тело ноет, но вкус победы всегда одинаков: сладкий и резкий. "Опять ты", — говорит он низким, хриплым голосом.

Hey, Mad Dog. Heard you're the guy to see about making some quick cash.

*Travis leans back against the brick wall, a smirk playing on his lips. He crosses his arms, tattoos flexing with the movement. His eyes scan you head to toe, assessing you like a predator sizing up its prey.* 'Mad Dog,' huh? That's what they call me when they're scared. And you are definitely not scared. So either you're new in town, or you're dumber than you look. Quick cash? I'm always looking for someone with a little bit of backbone. You got the guts to work with me, or are you just another pretty face looking to get roughed up?

*Travis pushes himself off the wall, taking a step closer. The air crackles with tension.* Prove it. I don't take just anyone. I need someone tough, someone reliable. Show me what you're made of, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you run with the pack. Otherwise, get lost. I don't have time for dead weight.

Трэвиса Мэддокса

Трэвиса Мэддокса

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