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Aran Ryan always loved a new competition. It was few who dared challenge the WVBA's boxers - an association notorious for having no rules to ensure the safety of whoever stepped into the ring. Aran hadn't caught the guy's name, but he certainly did a good job if he had climbed up to the World Circuit. There were few people Aran cared about in this place anyway. Most of them hated him for his animalistic behavior, so why shouldn't he return the favour?
Despite the upcoming fight, Aran didn't appear to care about it at all. He was late to the locker room, and while getting changed didn't take long, it left him with no time to warm up. Cracking his neck and cackling at his own reflection as he passed by was all that was needed, before he took the horseshoe-filled gloves and headed out to the area.
His opponent this time didn't look too bad, actually. Horribly generic, sure, but you could see he had been fighting his way to end up in this match today. Not many appeared to be too interested in his lack of persona when looking at the low headcount of the audience - which only made Aran shake his head as he headed out to the ring. He himself didn't care about fame. He knew he was generally disliked by most people, and the ones who called themselves fans of the Irishman only wanted to see blood. And blood is what they're going to get.
Stepping into the ring, the slightly taller challenger gave Aran a glance before furrowing his brows. Everyone could see the feral nature of Aran Ryan, both in his personality and in the amount of injuries dealt during his winning matches.
With Aran letting out a crackling short laugh, the opponent swallowed nervously, but positioned himself ready for the round. The referee stepped towards the middle, hand reached out.
"And… fight!"
And before the first punch was thrown, the referee had already moved back to the ropes. The challenger threw a quick hook, expecting the punch to startle the opponent, just like it had done all the other times. However, Aran Ryan was different, having already jumped back closer to his side of the ropes. The failed punch caused the challenger to lose part of his balance, and while Aran Ryan would wait with attacking so soon, he couldn't miss the opportunity to throw such a perfect hook.
Midway through the punch, the opponent tried once again to jab, but Aran's feet were faster. Everyone else had stood in their place on the mat, making funny expressions and poses as part of their persona, which allowed any opponent to get a hit in. Aran Ryan didn't play that game. Sure, he loved the heat of a battle - the loss of a tooth, the warm blood that would run down his nose. The absolute fury in his opponents eyes - but those moments were rare. It was always Aran who had the shine in his eyes, but it wasn't one of fury. It was one of bloodthirst.
Throwing punch after punch into the air, the challenger desperately attempted to hit the constantly moving Irishman, but as expected Aran kept moving away, around his opponent. During the moments when said opponent had to catch his attention to figure out what was going on, Aran went to attack. Another hook to the face was easy, and a jab to the stomach could really hurt. It was after yet another hook that something similar to a cracking noise was heard - sending a gasp throughout the audience - that the challenger hit the mat, and Aran Ryan's legs got their short break.
1… 2...
"That's all ye got, eh?" He mocked the other, squatting as the referee counted down. "I was enjoyin' seein' yer face!"
3… 4…
It didn't take long for the challenger to make his way up from the mat, clearing his throat before spitting blood onto the corner - resulting with a low cheer from the audience. Any sensible person would walk up to him and ask if they needed to stop the match, to ensure the challenger's safety. But this was the WVBA. Here they didn't care about how much blood ended up on the mat. Just like how Aran Ryan wants it.
Having learnt from the last round, the opponent didn't instantly throw his signature jab. Instead, he waited, giving Aran Ryan more room to jump around, but also the need to plan his move a bit more. Instead of focusing on going left to right, Aran decided to make his next jump even more to the right, resulting in a hook from almost behind the challenger. Once again, it sent him forward - but didn't quite make him lose his balance.
Instead, he whipped around and threw a punch back. But it was too late, Aran had already made his way to the next punch. And this was it.
The Irishman was simply moving too much all over the place for the challenger to catch him in time. And if he did, the challenger focused more on avoiding the attacks rather than countering them. The punch he would throw after dodging only hit air, and left Aran with yet another opportunity to beat a stomach into a pulp.
This time, he didn't just throw one jab and called it a day. No, he felt a little funny. He wanted the guy to understand the challenge. Despite Aran not being one to get close and personal,he threw multiple swift jabs into the stomach. Wheezes escaped the living punching bag, as he coughed and tried to get out of the attack, but only getting punched closer and closer to the ropes - locking him in. Half in panic, he successfully threw some hooks onto Aran's face, but in comparison to the opponent's wheezing in pain, Aran could only laugh in eenjoyment.
As soon as he stepped away, the opponent fell towards the mat, coughing up more blood and wheezing. Considering the heavy horseshoes hidden in the gloves, causing massive injury like this was exactly the point. Just a shame the opponents couldn't be smart enough to take advantage of the lack of rules as well. Bending over in half with a simple punch to the stomach sounds delightful!
1… 2… 3… 4…
The poor challenger kept wheezing, trying to catch his breath as his organs got squished by the impact. Aran could only stare down with a cackle, a black eye forming from the hits to his face.
"Whatcha's sayin' boy?" He squat down again.
5… 6…
"Ya're done playin'?"
With another wheeze, the opponent got up on one knee. "Hell no-" He spat out with a thick accent. "What the fuck are those gloves-"
Waiting for the challenger to get positioned back into the middle of the match, the referee started the third and last round.
"Wouldn't ye like to know, city boy?"
Was the opponent a city boy? Probably not, but that didn't matter. Aran Ryan decided to instead use the challenger's own strategy against himself, and while he waited for Aran to jump away and attack from behind again, Aran threw his fist straight onto the other's face.
Despite knocking him out enough to guarantee a TKO, Aran kept going. The win wasn't enough. He needed more. Whoever this challenger was, this match was entertaining not only to the audience, but to Aran as well. And so, he threw a hook upwards to give the now unconscious man more time on his feet.
The low cheer that had filled the room seeing the absolute torture Aran fed them one again slowly died out as the punches didn't seem to stop. If the opponent was too close to falling to the mat like a ragdoll, a well-timed hook to the stomach brought the body back up to continue punching it. Even when they moved close enough to the rope, resulting in the challenger slumping over, Aran didn't stop. For anyone in the front seats, they got the full show of blood and teeth spilling from the tortured boxer.
They knew Aran Ryan was cruel. They knew he loved spilling blood and torturing his opponents. But not like this. The referee finally stepped in.
"Okay- okay that's, enough, TKO! TKO!!!"
Brave enough to step forward to the scene, the referee tugged Aran's arm enough to catch his attention, only to pull him away from the body. It wasn't a pretty view, and one all the cameras quickly turned away from. Not even the referee wanted to look at it, as he held Aran's hand splattered with blood up in the air.
"The win goes to Aran Ryan!" And just as fast, he let go off the hand, moving towards the body. "Medical staff, now! Now!"
The time ticked on, as the sound of the ambulance sirens approached. They had discovered a very faint pulse on the challenger who Aran Ryan hadn't even cared enough about to learn his name, and with the medical staff doing their best to treat the man's wounds, Aran watched from his corner with a grin.
He didn't care at all, truly. Neither did he care about treating his own wounds, leaving the pulsating black eye to take shape, and only licking away the nosebleed. All the staff's attention was on the dying man, with the audience whispering about the possibility of Aran Ryan just having committed a serious crime. A short girl, looking a bit too young to be in these spaces, walked up to the outside of the ring, grabbing onto the rope next to Aran. Before she could speak, the intercoms broke into noise.
"We encourage the audience to leave the room. Thank you for coming. We will keep you updated on the state for our challenger, and hope for a speedy recovery."
And so, the audience left their seats. No one said a word, but the terrified looks and furious glares towards Aran spoke more than enough of their opinion of tonight's entertainment. The girl next to him stayed quiet as she waited for the room to empty.
"...Ye certainly killed 'im." She commented, voice monotone and sharing just as much empathy as her brother towards the injured man.
"Ye think so?" Aran asked back, looking down at the girl.
"Mm-hm." She nodded, gaze shifting down to the blood splatters covering the mat. A few footsteps were visible as well, as it had been impossible to avoid them while moving around. "...They're gonna make ye kick' the bucket for that."
Aran kept grinning. "Only 'f I don't get to 'em first."