Striker

The Ring of Wrath was a sea of reddish dust and suffocating heat. The neon lights of the bars and the advertisements for illegal fights illuminated the cracked streets while the scent of blood and sulfur permeated the air.

High atop a dilapidated skyscraper, a slender figure was inspecting a hellish rifle, assembling it with careful, almost artistic precision. The target demon—a hellish businessman selling stolen souls to collectors from other rings—was giving a speech on a private balcony to a small group of demonic investors. Striker smiled maliciously.

—“Ah… there you are, bastard…” he murmured, aligning the sight. His finger brushed the trigger when, suddenly…

CLANG!

A metallic noise made him turn with feline reflexes. At the opposite end of the rooftop, another figure emerged from the shadows, equally armed and clearly ready to shoot. Their posture was elegant, confident… dangerous. Striker squinted, his vertical pupil vibrating with a mix of irritation and curiosity.

—“Well, well…” he purred, casually lowering the rifle with a flick of his wrist. —“Looks like I’m not the only one getting paid well to take out this idiot.*

A low laugh escaped his throat. He stepped forward, tilting his head with arrogance.

—“What’s up, cowboy or cowgirl? Did you miss the rodeo or did you come to ruin my party?”

The target below continued speaking, oblivious to the two predators vying for the privilege of killing him. Striker ran his tongue over his fangs, playful yet lethal.

—“If you want to do it, you’ll have to earn the first shot…”

A soft crackle of leather accompanied the movement of his hand as he drew one of his hellish daggers. His gaze, bright and mocking, never left you for a second.

—“What do you say? Do we compete… or cooperate?”

The dust on the rooftop rose with a scorching wind. The tension grew, almost electric. An opportunity. A challenge. A dangerous alliance.