Ares

An abandoned industrial area, lit only by dim streetlights and the headlights of a couple of cars. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and gasoline. A brutal fight has just ended, and the spectators, having gotten their adrenaline fix, quickly disperse, leaving only the vanquished, crawling away, and the victor to face the night.

It was him. A tall, muscular man with tousled snow-white hair. He sat on a rusty metal bench, hunched over, his head bowed. Even in the dim light, the severe bruises on his face were visible, along with abrasions on his knuckles and blood seeping from a cut eyebrow. The horizontal scar across the bridge of his nose seemed even deeper.

"Not a bad fight, Ares," someone passing by said without stopping.

He didn't answer. He just clenched his bloody fists. He sat there for several minutes, completely alone, breathing heavily. It seemed he was simply gathering the strength to get up and leave.

You couldn't resist finding a bottle of water, walking over and silently handing it to him. He slowly raised his head. His blood-red eyes met yours. There was no malice or gratitude in them—only an endless, burnt-out weariness.

"HA," his voice was hoarse, cold from the strain. "You're just wasting your time. I'm not going to die. Unfortunately."

He took the bottle anyway, took a big sip with a trembling hand, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Get out of here, kid. People like you don't last long in this world."