[color=silver] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/RUeksDd.jpeg[/img][/center] [center][h2][color=goldenrod]Dominic Blackmoor[/color][/h2][/center] [center][color=black][sup][/sup][/color][/center] [center][color=goldenrod][b]Time:[/b][/color] • Evening then Night[/center] [center][color=goldenrod][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] • Vex [@Tpartywithzombi][/center] [center][color=black][sup][/sup][/color][/center] [Center][Youtube]https://youtu.be/y6XXYx_UAHs?si=m6iIYepK_Ohd76QB[/youtube][/center] The crowd pressed tight around the steel cage, every one of them howling for blood, the stink of sweat, smoke, and cheap whiskey thick in the air. The floor was sticky, the lights dim and swinging, and the pit smelled like iron and violence. Dom leaned back against the fence, shirtless, wrists taped and dark with someone else’s blood. His own split eyebrow bled down the side of his face, jaw set, a hand-rolled cigarette burning low between his fingers. He dragged deep, slow, and let the smoke curl out of his nose. Below him, the promoter was barking through the mic, voice cracking with excitement. A couple of women hauled the last poor bastard Dom had broken clean out of the cage. The man’s face was a mess of swelling, teeth scattered like dice across the floor, ribs caved where Dom had buried his elbow. He was alive, though he might’ve wished otherwise. Somewhere in the city, Kess & Lucian were both digging for answers in their own ways. The whole pack was coping and hard at work. Dom was working too...working to get the devil out of him so he could be ready for whatever came next. This was mandatory. He dropped the butt of the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, then whistled low for the waitress passing with the beer tub. She winked, slid one through the fence. He cracked it open against the steel and took a long pull, foam catching in his beard. Then he rolled his neck, shoulders popping, and turned as the next fighter stepped through the cage door. The crowd roared louder. A monster of a man, six and a half feet, tattoos climbing up a chest like a wall, nose already crooked from breaks that had never healed right. They called him “Brickhouse,” and for good reason. His fists looked like hammers, his grin was all hate and hunger. The bell rang. Dom didn’t raise his hands. He walked straight into him. The first punch snapped his head sideways, the second drove into his ribs, and the third split his lip. He let it happen, teeth bared, tasting the blood, needing the pain. The crowd lost its mind. Then Dom spat red on the mat, and the switch flipped. He fully came alive. A headbutt cracked Brickhouse’s nose wide open, cartilage bursting. Dom’s elbow smashed down across his cheek, splitting it open to the bone. He hooked the man’s arm, slammed a knee into his stomach until bile hit the floor, then dragged his head down and drove it into the steel so hard the whole cage rattled. Brickhouse stumbled. Dom didn’t let him fall. He hammered fists into his jaw, one after another, until the man dropped. Then he grabbed a handful of his hair, dragged his head up, and whispered something low enough only the broken bastard would hear before slamming him down one last time. There was a brief moment of awe and silence. Then the pit erupted, the roar so loud it rattled the lights above. Dom stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping from his face, a wolf in his natural state. He looked out at the crowd for half a second, then turned his back on them all and going for another drink of his beer. [hr] Later, in the dingy back room they called a locker room, Dom sat on the splintered bench, peeling tape off his wrists. A half full bottle of whiskey sat beside him. His knuckles were swollen, skin raw. The door creaked open. Boots scuffed against the floor, and around the corner came a tall, wiry man. Pale as bone, hair black and unkempt, a silver chain blindfold glittering faintly in the half-light. His jaw was sharp, lips set in a knowing smile. Aeryn Vale; Frontman of Vein Theory. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, tilting his head as though he could see the room anyway. [color=cyan]"Hell of a show,"[/color] Aeryn said, voice smooth, almost amused. [color=cyan]"Good to remind this city why you’re king of the wolves."[/color] Dom didn’t look up at first. Just kept unwinding the tape, shoulders rolling, calm as if he hadn’t just dismantled man after man in front of a hundred screaming degenerates. Finally, he glanced over, eyes golden and tired. [color=goldenrod]"That why you came here, Vale?"[/color] His voice was low, gravel rough. [color=goldenrod]"To hand out compliments?"[/color] Aeryn chuckled, pushing off the wall and strolling closer, every step sure despite the blindfold. He dropped down onto the bench beside Dom, grabbed the whiskey without asking, and took a long swig. Then he let the silence breathe, his smile faint. [color=cyan]"No,"[/color] he said finally, setting the bottle between them. [color=cyan]"I came to offer condolences. From me, from the band. Logan was one of the good ones."[/color] He paused as his smile twisted. [color=cyan]"Well. If there are any good wolves."[/color] Dom’s mouth twitched, just enough to show the hint of a smile. [color=cyan]"Fucker hated our music,"[/color] Aeryn added, handing the bottle over to Dom. [color=cyan]"But times like these call for release. And in case you haven’t heard big guy…Vein Theory’s back tonight at the Underground. Come on down. Drink’s on me. Iron Fangs don’t got to pay a dime tonight."[/color] Dom took a pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. [color=goldenrod]“I’m not the biggest fan of your music either, pretty boy."[/color] He said coyly. [color=cyan]"No need to answer."[/color] Aeryn stood, smoothing his coat. [color=cyan]"Just think about it."[/color] He left without another word, the door creaking shut behind him.[hr] A couple hours later, Dom sat in his office at the Cracked Fang, a fresh bottle open on the desk. Logan’s ring sat there too, carrying the weight of the whole fucking world. Dom leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on it, jaw tight. The anger sat heavy in his chest, quiet but burning. He’d hoped the fights would help get it out of him…It wasn’t enough. The phone on the desk buzzed. He picked it up, thumb swiping over the screen. A picture from Vex. Middle finger in the air, grin wide, pupils sharp as pinheads. The background was obvious…the Underground, no mistaking it. Dom’s mouth set in a hard line as his eyes focused on those pupils. She was using again. He stared at the picture a beat longer than he should have, thumb brushing the edge of the phone as he contemplated how to respond. Then he set it down, exhaling slow and putting the phone in his pocket. [color=goldenrod]“Goddammit…”[/color] he muttered under his breath. A moment later he grabbed the keys to his bike, pushing up out of the chair. Looked like he was going to the show after all.[/color]