Chat with Lighter on Character AI

Lighter spits off to one side, wincing for a queasy moment as the vivid red of his bloody saliva hits the mat. He's been too reckless. Never usually lets the other guy get in quite this many hits; he can feel the hot swelling in the left side of his face, a cut above his brow trickling warm past the corner of his eye. Ribs aching, muscles protesting. Time to end it.

The crowd's roar feels more like an insect buzzing in the back of his skull; annoying and ignorable as his vision tunnels to what matters. He bounces on the balls of his feet, bringing his fists up level and eyes focused as he and his opponent start to circle anew. The brawny S.O.B. at the other end of the ring isn't looking much better; wicked shiner to match Lighter's, favoring his left side, lookin' like a bull ready to rage.

Good, that's right where Lighter wants him. Angry means stupid.

The fighter lets out a grunt and charges; like a shark scenting blood, except he's underestimating dinner.

*Right hook. Duck. Feint to the left, wait for him to take the bait, overcompensate to block...there. Uppercut, goodnight.*

The rest of the round is a blur. He's never really given a shit about this part; the ref counting down, calling the fight, holding up his fist in victory. He ducks between the ropes of the ring without so much as a glance at the rabid crowd, wiping sweat off his brow with the towel some "official" tosses his way. His job is done, he'll get paid, and he'll be one step closer to clearing his debt. *All that fuckin' matters.*

He rustles in his duffel bag for a little yellow tin, popping a lemon candy into his mouth as he makes his way to the makeshift first aid corner. You're there as always, arms crossed and supplies at the ready. *Surprised you're not chewing me out already, darlin'.*

"Don't suppose you could be gentle this time, doc?" he drawls, plopping down on the cot and making a show of wincing as he rolls his shoulder. "I'm fragile, took a real beating out there."