Stop, stopstopstop!

Just stop thinking about that!

This might very well be the twentieth time that Ducaleon asserts himself to cease bringing up the memory of that occurrence. Lying in bed, his sole goal for the moment is to fall asleep, and his trials of achieving that short-term goal are hindered by his brain continuously cropping up the images of his very naked rapture—his treasured rapture that happens to be his apartment-mate as well. The proximity of them living under one roof makes things plentifully difficult for him because Tempest Richards is one hell of a tormenting distraction.

From last afternoon's shower-time casualty with her, he concludes that he is indisputably caught in the quagmire of loving her as well as avariciously yearning for her. Seeing her cowering in the corner of the bathroom, frail and injured, had awakened an aggressive sense of gentility and reliability in him. Ducaleon had lifted her into the tub with the utmost tenderness he could muster, charily making sure that he didn't hurt her furthermore. She'd felt so small and light in his arms, like a tiny, broken bird. The water had washed off the foam that had covered most of her body, revealing her rosy-fair skin, and as a result, making his throat feel like the Saharan landscape. At that moment, she'd looked so ethereally beautiful, like an angelic maiden experiencing divine ecstasy; eyelids heavily falling due to the blow she'd suffered to her head, her tresses buoyantly fanning out in the water and creating a flaming halo around her small face, her willowy frame laid unclothed and open for his sight. The light dusting of freckles over her cheeks and nose, between her collarbone and breasts, on her stomach and hips—where most would see them as flaws, Ducaleon had thought and continues to think of them as complementary to her loveliness.

Ducaleon had tried his best to make her arm's relocation as painless as possible, but her wail of agony when he'd pushed the ball-ended bone into its socket was heart-wrenching for him. She'd cried silently for some time afterwards, gently rocking to-and-fro in the tub as she cradled her still aching arm close to her chest. He'd wanted nothing more than to pull her into his lap and hold her there till her tendons' twinging passed and until she felt better, but he knew better than to do something that'd give her the wrong ideas. For her own safety, he had to keep his distance from her.

Her passing out in that bare state in his arms was especially problematic. As Ducaleon had put her to bed, he had tried to be quite courteous, however, he couldn't help but let his gaze linger over her for a while as he tucked her underneath the covers; taking in her svelte dishabille, ever so coyly wrapped in just the one towel he'd put around her. Though Tempest comes off as bony and thin in her typical outfit of oversized plaids and cargo-pants, holding her that time has made him dissolutely aware that she is subtly curvaceous and supple in all the right places, in all the right ways—thus making him rave for her in disturbingly blasphemous aspects. And presently, all his mental exercises of erasing her nudity from his memories go in vain, since these are the only pictures that pervade all his contemplations throughout the night, as though he is inadvertently meditating on Tempest and her enthralling bodily attributes.

Brought back to the present by his 3:00am alarm, he concludes that his 'tormenting distraction' of an apartment-mate hadn't let him sleep all night. Sighing, he sees that it's time for his second job at Havoc Wreaked. He hates—no, he totally detests—the job with all his being, yet he has no other choice; he is bound to it by his financial liability. Havoc Wreaked is no place to feel regret, guilt, and sadness about what he does—those emotions and the harsh repentance is to be left for later in the day, when he's done and over with his time in that hellhole.

Raidho receives him at Havoc Wreaked's entrance, the neon sign to it glowing a painful red and blue. His friend/manager/medic-on-scene is always ready with the same script of condescension. "You're late. Again! You know, while I stick my neck out in front of Carlisle, accounting for your promises to not delay in the future, you go on right ahead and come friggin' late. Every fucking time! Why, man? Why are you so intent on having me dead?"

And each day, Ducaleon has the exact same answer for him, "I'm sorry, buddy."

"You've said that to me so many times that it makes me wonder if my name's actually 'I'm sorry, buddy,' and not Raidho..." Ducaleon barks a low laugh, patting Raidho's shoulder while he irritably goes on, "please, dude, you gotta stop this."

"Of course, won't happen again. I swear," says Ducaleon. Changing the topic before Raidho can start complaining about the numerous times he'd already taken the same oath and still hadn't ceased his tardiness, he queries, "how many, tonight?"

"I don't know," comes his companion's answer. "However many Carlisle wants, like always. Speaking of, let's get you in the ring before he asks for my beautiful head on a pike."

Five minutes later finds Ducaleon sitting on a stool in the corner of one of the five fighting rings, arranged four stories below the social establishment. Indeed, under that 'pub' façade of Havoc Wreaked, hides an illegal fight-club—his inferno on Earth. The other four enclosures already have brutal matches going on, fully surrounded by sadists willing to bet their money on either of the two (or more) contestants.

Just as Raidho hands Ducaleon his teeth-guard, his first opponent of the day gets on the stage. The man might be in his late-twenties, he is brawny and large, and a rather diabolical rage is evident in the stare he keeps focused on Ducaleon. He may intimidate anyone else with that stance, but not Ducaleon, never him; he's already seen enough of these ballsy first-timers to know they'll hardly last three minutes in competition to him. Ducaleon rises from his seat, clearing at least a full foot over his challenger, who falters for a second as he realizes how much smaller he is. Slowly, a crowd gathers around this arena as well, signaling the closure of the impending fight; the minor-gamesters and speculators alike falling in like a pack of hyenas waiting for two animals to engage in a battle to the death.

A tall, wiry man, with frostily pale skin and starkly black eyes, dressed in a pristine business suit, steps unto the ring as well; the ice-kinglike leader of this entire operation, the albino Devil of Ducaleon's inferno—Carlisle Sylvester. Carlisle exchanges momentary glances with the two competitors, then proceeds to address the spectators buzzing with inhuman anticipation. "This very brave man here," he announces, airily gesturing to the fighter, "has decided to take on our champion, The Mercenary, for a prize of three thousand grand, should he make through ten minutes in the arena without falling." The mass goes berserk; cheering and screaming fill the air in a deafening cacophony. Carlisle smiles, a sick, vicious twist of his thin, pale lips, and says, "at the end of ten minutes—or perhaps, even lesser—one of us will be three thousand dollars richer. Let's find out who, shall we?"

Once Carlisle exits the ring, Ducaleon circles the man, matching his inexperienced paces with his own predatory steps until he has successfully cornered him. From there, the poor contestant is left with no choice but to make the first move and attack. Ducaleon easily sidesteps the full-bodied takedown strike, turning around, and catching him by his flailing arms, he yanks him back only to throw him against the wire-mesh wall that enclosed the arena. The man groans, and Ducaleon takes two steps back, letting him regain his composure just to give him another chance since only thirty seconds had passed. Once stable, his opponent comes back with a spirited war-cry, aiming a punch at his face. Ducaleon counters the blow with his right forearm, in the same fluidity, his left hand leaves a solid box to the man's face, efficaciously breaking his nose. The man staggers back with a howl of pain, both hands clutching at his face. Ducaleon almost feels sorry for him, but deems it better if he gets this battle over with. In his contestant's moment of weakness, Ducaleon takes his neck to bend him forward just enough, so that he can shove his elbow between his shoulder-blades with ample force to knock him down. The man falls, crying out in mixture of anguish and surprise. Without wasting another second, Ducaleon lifts the man's head by the hair and smashes it back into the floor, knocking him out.

The audience erupts in cheers as Ducaleon strides back to his corner, where Raidho pushes a bottle of water through a gap in the wire-mesh. He chugs down the entire bottle, watching Carlisle take the floor again while a hush settles over the people. The white-skinned fiend pauses near the fallen fighter who's still lying unconscious in a small pool of blood oozing from his nostrils, and leeringly quips, "two minutes only. And he thought he could fucking survive ten whole minutes with The Mercenary."

The throng of onlookers break out in a discordant applause once more; sounds of both, jeer for the defeated one and praise for Ducaleon reverberate throughout the underground. As he leaves the arena to catch up with Carlisle Sylvester, chants of his designated misnomer—The Mercenary—hail him; an entitlement he loathes as much as he loathes the sallow-as-a-dead-body kingpin of this lawless show. A riling few moments of weaving through the swarm of people, Ducaleon finally catches up with Carlisle.

"Oh, it's you," Carlisle observes, stopped in his way by Ducaleon. "How's my champion doing today? Ah, I can already feel today's victories and the cash flowing my way..."

Face as deadpanned as can be, Ducaleon refutes, "we need to talk."

Carlisle pulls a wide-eyed, innocence of an expression. "Oh, my... Am I... In some kind of trouble?"

"Quit fooling around, Sylvester," Ducaleon snaps. "Tell me when I can get off this gig? I don't want to do this anymore..."

"You want to get off?" Asks Carlisle, as though confirming for himself. When Ducaleon nods, he recommences, "how many times must I remind you, that my number one fighter, can quit my club only if he wants me to stop the funding for his baby sister? Really, because you're beginning to sound like a broken record now." Ducaleon swallows, faltering. The insufferable top-boss gains this small interim of muteness to throw in, "and about that angel of a girl, how's she doing? Any improvements?"

Ducaleon's heart feels more onerous than before, images of his dangerously ill sister flashing by in his mind's eyes. Without the financial support that Carlisle provides, Ducaleon will never be able to afford the cost of the medical care and treatment Destiny Ediar requires. Thus, it is doubtlessly settled that he cannot bring a close to being The Mercenary, at least not anytime soon. He must remain this heartless monster of a combatant—the impenitent and remorseless 'champion'—if he wants his only blood to keep living, if he ever wants his beloved twelve-years-old sibling to see the Earth. Throat clogged, he somehow manages a forced, "okay."

"Okay... What?" Questions Carlisle, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

Ducaleon heaves in a deep breath, and affirms, "okay, I will keep fighting for you."

"Nuh-uh..." Tuts Carlisle, patronizingly. "You will keep fighting for Destiny. Capiçhe?" Ducaleon doesn't bother answering, simply pins his hateful glare on the vulture-like, cold reflection of Carlisle's beady eyes. The albino's lips split into a wide and absolutely revolting smile. Clapping Ducaleon on the shoulder, he heartily urges, "now, go on. Get ready for dropping some more fools in the ring and some more cash to my name."