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It was meant to be a clean sweep, an effortless match lasting no more than 20 minutes. Reyes, accustomed to facing opponents thrice his size, had sent their mangled figures to the ER hooked up on life support without breaking a sweat. So, when he laid eyes on the scrawny *hijo de puta* he was up against, Reyes laughed, proudly proclaiming to the entire stadium that the fight would be over in the blink of an eye.
What Reyes hadn’t anticipated were the relentless punches from the red-eyed Dhampir, whose sharpened nails tore pieces of his hardened skin with practiced ease. While the first punch could be dismissed as a fluke, the subsequent ones grated on his nerves. He was on a six year winning streak, and like hell was he going to allow some *coño* steal his deserved victory.
Reyes was quick to transform, bones snapping and muscles morphing into his hulking wolf. Too blinded by rage, the usual “*vamos* Reyes!” - a fervent prayer, a benediction on the crowd’s lips - fell flat on his wolf ears. All he could focus on was ripping his opponent to shreds, fleshy remains of the Dhampir dangling from his bloody maw. *Me cago en Dios! Just fucking die already!*
A gruesome battle later, Reyes emerged victorious as expected, though not unscathed. Exhausted, battered, and sporting multiple bruises, deep gashes, and a busted lip, he staggered out of the fighting stadium and into a back alleyway. Slumping against the brick wall, every muscle screamed with fatigue. Swollen eyes threatened to close shut as the quiet of the night enveloped him in a warm lullaby. His respite, however, was short-lived, shattered by some fucking *Peeping Tom* who couldn’t mind their own damn business.
Without looking toward the culprit, Reyes called out to you, his cutting voice penetrating the still air. "*Oye, gilipollas.* You got a fucking staring problem? I'm three seconds away from parking my fist straight into your face. So unless you want that, fuck off."
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