"Really?"

Dean glances over at April as he shrugs out of his leather jacket. "Yep. First night an' everything. The Kid must really not like me, huh? Oh, by the way, who won that last fight?"

"Who are you up against?" asks April, ignoring all of Dean's questions. "Since it's your first night, your name hasn't been added to the leaderboard, so I don't know who you're facing." She catches his jacket as he hands it to her and follows him towards the ring. She furrows her brow when Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know. I'm sure I can knock whoever it is the fuck out though, so I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?"

April frowns. "There's a difference between confidence and cockiness, you know." Unfortunately, Dean shrugs again. "Maybe so. But that's just a matter of vocabulary, isn't it? Tomato, to-mah-to, right?"

April sighs and shrugs the leather jacket on, earning a raised eyebrow from Dean when he sees her. "Well I'm not just gonna stand here and hold it like your little cheerleader girlfriend while you go off and wreck stuff!" she says. "Besides, we both know I wear this better than you."

Dean watches her a moment longer and then snorts. "Yeah, okay. Maybe so. I want it back when I win, though."

April smiles and shakes her head. "No promises." And then she flounces into the ring. "Alright! Change of pace, boys and girls! Seems like the Kid has decided to play things a little differently tonight. We've got a surprise entrant in tonight's line-up," she shouts, taking up her post in the middle of the mat. She raises her eyebrows and wiggles them. "We've got fresh meat."

Whoops and hollers rise from the onlookers, primal and chanting for blood like a gladiator pit. April giggles and waves her hand, looking like she's enjoying this as much as they are. "So gather round, kiddos, because tonight, we've got ourselves a Baby's First Blood match!"

Well, they certainly are creative with the names of things around here.

"Alright, alright; I get it. Who's ready for bloodsport? Help me introduce our newbie brawler, Dean Ambrose!"

Dean took that as his cue to enter the ring, shoving through the crowd to make his way to stand by April in the ring. There was a pop that circulated through the audience, not quite positive, but obviously in excitement to see Dean get borderline murdered for sport. April grimaced, and leaned towards a tiny guy who scurried into the ring and whispered something into her ear. She frowned and nodded at him, and he disappeared back into the fray.

"A-and the opponent facing him tonight," she said, managing to keep the unease out of her voice, "surprise, surprise, the monster, the devil's favorite demon, the big red machine himself, Kane!"

It sounded as though April had just announced the beer was free. The audience erupted in a deafening cacophony of noise, more than ecstatic for whoever the fuck this Kane guy was supposed to be. April glanced back at Dean, looking a little worried and then watched as the crowd split into two to let the man through. Holy hell.

Dean actually had to crane his neck upwards to see the guy, it wasn't even left a mystery as to who he was fighting because he towered over everyone's heads and everyone could see him coming from a mile away. Kane was almost seven feet tall, pale as snow and had a face that perpetually scowled. He looked like an inmate, or a serial killer, which was an uneasy thought, considering the circumstances. Dean swallowed and felt someone move beside him and looked down to find April. "Good luck, guy," she told him. "You're gonna need it."

Dean knew better than to head into a fight swinging with all you had. It tired you out easily, left you open for stupid mistakes. He hadn't been fighting the behemoth man in front of him for even five minutes and he already felt fatigue creeping up on him. His knuckles were sore and bruised and he was bleeding from a split lip and so far it looked as though he hadn't even managed to leave a dent on the guy.

Kane swung at him again, Dean ducking and dodging - arms up, shoulders loose, he told himself, and landed an uppercut to the big man's jaw. It wasn't a stellar shot by any means, but Dean would take whatever he could get. It was surreal how quickly Kane moved –a man that size shouldn't have been able to move that quickly. But he dodged Dean almost as well as the slightly smaller male and he'd landed just as many blows, if not more.

Still, Dean was just a hint faster, and he had his build to thank for that. He wasn't ripped with muscle, which made for great movement, but he wasn't a skinny guy either. He had a workable toned build that had come from previous manual labor jobs that he'd had before the battle with schizophrenia had gotten worse. He was bigger than Seth, which was a surprise, because the kid was a total health nut and went to the gym more often than he was home.

Dean also had his skill. He wasn't a professionally trained fighter; he'd learned most of what he knew from getting into brawls in his youth and watching people fight in the cul-de-sac he'd lived in. It was a rule of survival to never fight fair if you could stand it, and he was used to fighting dirty. He wasn't stupid; he knew that the secret to taking a guy as big as Kane out was to get his legs out from under him, topple the tree and hack off the head. He hadn't done that just yet because even if he did manage to fell the titan, he could still get up and knock the taste from Dean's mouth if he wasn't injured enough to actually stay down. Not to mention, he could only pull the same trick so many times before Kane caught on and put an end to it.

So he'd bided his time, trying to get as much damage done as possible before going in for the kill shot, but so far, it was proving to take a near eternity to get there. Still, Dean couldn't really complain. He was finally breaking skin and drawing blood, which was heavenly balm on his itch for violence. Even if it did seem like he was getting his ass generously handed to him, he was still having a damn good time. It was invigorating, releasing the earlier pent-up aggression, hearing the blood pumping in his ears and the cheers of the crowd surrounding them. He could taste the salty tang of sweat dripping from his face and across his tongue as he swept it over his still -bloody lip. Ugh, and the adrenaline buzz was a natural high.

Dean wanted this. He wanted to be able to feel this good all the time. He wanted to bruise his knuckles and have it drip across his skin and splatter across his face. He wanted an outlet for the voices that could quench the thirst for violence. That was why he was going to make sure that he won tonight, so that he could keep the blood flowing.

Pain exploded against Dean's jaw as Kane caught him with a nasty jab, sending him staggering back. He immediately found his footing, shakily at best, and jammed the heel of his palm into Kane's chin, throwing enough momentum behind this blow to send the giant reeling. And there is his opening.

Dean takes the few precious seconds that it takes for Kane to regain his composure and imitates the move he saw Reigns use from earlier. He throws himself headlong in an amateurish spear right into the Kane's knees, catching him by surprise. Kane throws out his arms for balance, but can't get a hold, and topples like an oak tree to the mat. From there, pure instinct drives Dean. He scrabbles up and straddles the huge man, raising his fists and sends them raining down as hard as he can across Kane's face.

The crowd is still thunderously applauding, shouting mostly in incoherent babble as they suddenly find themselves at a loss as to who to cheer for. Dean knows he's exerting way too much energy into a risky gambit like this, but at this point, he's kind of running on autopilot. He's used to naturally being a hard hitter, but he still has to limit himself. He still had to conserve energy to be able to continue fighting; after all, what good was it to be able to punch hard if you got too tired to keep it up for very long?

Soon, colors blend together and sights and sounds swirl into something chaotic. Dean had only ever been on a drug-induced high once, and decided he hadn't liked not being able to be fully in control of his actions, but this sensation as he continued to wale on Kane rivaled the trip's experience. It felt almost identical; his being unaware of what he was actually doing, unable to really stop himself as his fists continue to pump. It was as though he was watching his body move and interact from the sidelines.

And then suddenly it was over.

Something wet was dripping down his face. He flicks his tongue out and catches a dollop of something salty and vaguely hinting of iron. Blood. Dean looks down at himself to see where else he's been coated in blood, and finds his own hands covered in it. It paints the open scrapes across his knuckles and has gotten under his fingernails, along the knees of his jeans and the front of his shirt. He can feel it dribbling down his chin and dripping over his chest. Blood.

Dean blinks slowly and finally seems to realize that he is still sitting on someone. Below him, Kane's face is a mask of red and purple. He has a black eye, which is really the only thing that Dean can make out through all the blood spatter. Dean sits on his chest, breathing hard and trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Had he blacked out? Oddly enough, he found that he didn't care. He was actually elated that he was covered in someone else's blood.

The crowd, standing shell-shocked and slack-jawed, is oddly hushed. Not completely silent –there are a few disbelieving whispers here and there- but no one makes the effort to start a count-out. Not even April, who is standing at the edge of the audience, staring wide eyed at Dean. No one dares to try to count out the big red beast, who Dean guessed was the Handbag's resident deity judging by the amount of praise he'd warranted out of the crowd when he'd first been announced.

So he starts one up himself.

"One…" he says loudly. The front row flinches. A few of them look between each other, shocked that Dean would have the balls to try and count out Kane.

"Two…" Dean swipes his wrist across his nose, sniffling and regarding the blood that streaks across his skin with faint interest. He glances around, taking in the pale faces, smirking as he finally settles on April's stunned expression.

"Three."

Dean stands then, stepping over Kane's prone form and staggers back. He watches the man for a moment, still panting like a dog, and then smacks a hand against his head, almost like he's trying to empty water out of his ears. "Fuck."

He'd overdone it.

He turns to the crowd, or more importantly April, and stumbles over to her, swaying slightly on uneasy steps. He holds out his hand. "I believe you owe me my jacket, darlin'."

April stares up at him wide eyed, mouth slightly open, but makes no move to shrug out of the leather jacket. Instead, she and every other guy in the audience suddenly turn their heads towards a voice that rings out from the back.

"Who the fuck made this mistake?"

The crowd immediately goes dead silent. A man with long blonde hair stands near the bar, a red solo cup in hand as a pale-looking Kaitlyn finishes pouring a drink into it. He looks like every other ragtag bastard out on the floor, but there's something…off about him. Dean can't quite put his finger on it, but either way the dude oozes major bad vibes. He brings the cup to his lips and drinks, then lowers it and stalks towards the gathering. The crowd parts so wide that you would think the guy had leprosy or something. He comes to a stop just outside the mat, toes barely even scuffing the edge.

He nods at Kane, still bleeding on the mat. "Who laid him out?"

A hundred fingers direct themselves at Dean. What was this, kindergarten? He was almost surprised that none of them went, 'He did, he did!'

Dean rolls his neck and shrugs his shoulders. "That'd be me."

The guy nods, looking none too surprised. He regards Kane a moment more and then takes another sip from his drink. "And who are you?"

"Dean Ambrose." Dean grins and accepts the jacket that April slowly hands to him. "I came to fuck shit up."

At this, the guy just smirks, laughing low and dangerous under his breath. "I see. Well. From the looks of things, I'd say you succeeded. New blood, huh? First night?"

Dean nods. The man gives him a once over. "Not bad for a Baby's First Blood match. Not bad at all. Walk with me, Dean."

So Dean does. He follows the man back through the crowd, smirking at the wide eyes that watch him, and back out the way he'd come through the back of the building.

"I'm impressed," says the guy. "That's not usually how First Blood matches turn out. Usually, we're having to scrape the newbie off the mat with a shovel. But not you. Color me interested."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Who are you? And why do I get the feeling that I'll regret that?"

The man flashes him a look. "You'd find it in your best interest to keep me interested. Being an interesting guy has certain perks, you know. Call me Hunter." He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and fishes out a paper roll. He hands it to Dean with a secretive look. "Should you continue to find yourself in my good graces, you can expect more of that," he says aloofly. "Be back next week. I expect to see you here. If not, well…" he trails off with a chuckle and turns back towards the entrance. "It won't be pretty."

Hunter disappears back into the dark storage room then, leaving Dean outside the building under the stars. Dean blinks dumbly at the space where the guy had just been and then finally looks down at the roll of paper he'd given him.

Even he knows the color of money in the dark of night.

A wad of twenties tied together by a rubber band. Hunter had just given him over two hundred dollars in twenties for a fight that he didn't even see. Something rose up from the depths of Dean's being. He'd been elated before, but this was fucking hysterical. Not only had he made easy money just blowing off some steam, but he was pretty sure he'd found a way to keep money flowing doing something that he had been doing for years with nothing but a few scars to show for it.

Fuck, he thought as he shoved the roll into his jacket and began the walk home, this was gonna be good.

Seth was still asleep by the time Dean returned. He'd switched positions since Dean had last left him, now on his back with his arms sprawled out in all directions. His economics textbook was still open with a pencil that had been recently nibbled to a straw wedged between the pages, lying haphazardly at the edge of the bed. Dean closed it quietly and left it on the floor by Seth's discarded sneakers, pausing only to watch his sleeping friend for a moment.

Seth was sleeping so soundly; Dean knew it was only because he'd exhausted himself into such a deep sleep, but it was still a relief to see that he was getting some rest regardless. A small smile quirked at the corners of Dean's mouth and he reached out, brushing some wayward blonde hair back from Seth's face. Dumb kid had forgotten to take his glasses off. Dean pulled them off and placed them on the bedside table, then reached into his jacket pocket. He hefted the paper roll in his hand, bouncing it in his palm, and then turned his gaze back to Seth.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

Seth never took off Saturdays. He didn't even go to mass anymore for working on Sundays, though he hadn't really been consistent in his attendance for quite a few years. But that was okay; Dean hadn't set foot in a church since he had discovered the many wonders and whims of the female persuasion, and that had been many years in the running.

Dean dropped the roll of money beside the glasses and exhaled. After all this time, he would finally make sure that Seth came first.

When Seth stirs himself awake, the sun is filtering through his window in golden streaks across his skin. He yawns, stretches and lies back against the pillows, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. It's been awhile since he's woken up feeling this rested; he kind of wants to lay there and bask in the foreign sensation of a good night's sleep, but he knows he needs to get up and get ready for work. On Saturdays, he usually took the 8 AM shift and worked until three in the afternoon. Seth liked his job at the shop. He liked the casual laid-back atmosphere and the employees that worked there, and the discounted smoothies and fresh-made snacks were no slouch either. But fuck, if he wasn't exhausted afterwards.

Seth sighs and searches the bed with sleep-clumsy fingers for his phone, pushing back covers and raising pillows looking for the little object. Shouldn't his alarm still be going off? He hadn't dismissed it yet, he didn't think. He finally plucks it out from between his sheets and swipes his thumb across the lock screen. He squints at it, sighing roughly and shaking his head when he realizes that his eyes haven't quite adjusted to be able to see the tiny screen. He leans across the bed to grab his glasses that he didn't remember taking off and pauses.

Sitting next to his glasses is a small roll of paper bound by a rubber band. His hand hovers over his glasses as he slowly realizes what the roll is and he nearly knocks it off the bedside table hurrying to pick it up. He turns it in his hands slowly. "Where…?"

Seth grabs his phone and throws off the covers, noting with a frown that he's slept in his clothes again. He can't hear anything up front that sounds like another human being moving around. "Dean?" he calls out to a quiet apartment. The tv in the living room isn't even on. The lights are off in the kitchen and it doesn't sound as though the bathroom is being used. So Seth must be alone.

He sighs and pulls out his phone, intending to send Dean a text, wherever he is, and then heads for the kitchen. May as well get the coffee brewing before he showers. He opens the refrigerator door after getting their ancient coffee machine to turn on and feed it the grounds to start brewing, and his jaw drops.

He had been planning to grab their half-loaf of bread and make some toast, wrestle fruitlessly with the grumpy toaster that was desperately leaning on its last leg and probably just have to eat a floppy slice of bread and some scrambled eggs instead. That plan immediately flew out the window with the sight of a fully stocked fridge.

For once, there was actually a full carton eggs and milk. The vegetable drawer looked like it had fresh tomatoes and lettuce and carrots inside. Seth nearly cried at the sight of a precious pack of bacon sitting in the meat tray. A jug of orange juice and a full loaf of bread, some butter and cheese, a jar of jelly and a few cans of yogurt stared back at him like gold in a treasure chest. He narrowed his eyes. Was that maple syrup in the back?

"Looks good right?"

Seth nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden voice and whirls around. Dean is standing behind him with a bag of frozen peas pressed against his temple and a lopsided grin on his pale face. Seth looks at him and then back at the fridge, pointing. "Where did you get all of this?"

Dean laughed quietly, pulling the peas away from his head. "Well…"

Seth cuts him off, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Please don't tell me you stole it."

Dean feigns a look of hurt, clapping a hand over his chest. "No! Never! I can't go grocery shopping like a normal human being with normal human money?"

"Okay then…where'd you get the money?" Seth leans down and opens the vegetable drawer, sifting through the produce. Dean shrugs. "I went out and earned it."

"Doing what? And didn't you hear me calling you earlier?"

"Nothing that'll get me put in jail, if that's what you're wondering, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not really in peak condition right now. I was lying in bed with a pillow over my head," Dean replies, crossing to the cabinets over the sink and oven. "Hey, hey, check this out." He reaches inside and pulls out a box, shaking it with enthusiasm. Seth's eyes widen. "Oh, my god, is that pancake mix?"

"Fuckin' pancake mix, man," Dean nods, wiggling his eyebrow. "Is that awesome or what?"

Seth is speechless, leaning against the closed refrigerator. He runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head. "Where'd that money come from, Dean?" He looks up with tired eyes. "Really." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little roll, pinching it between his thumb and middle finger, raising an eyebrow at his friend. Dean puts the box on the counter and leans against it.

"And don't lie to me," Seth adds, holding up a finger. "And what happened to your face?"

Dean smiles reassuringly and shrugs. "Don't you trust me?" At Seth's flat look, he continues, "I'm trying, man. I really am. I went out, got into a bar fight, which is where all of this," he gestures wildly at his bruised face, "and found a couple of guys last night who let me blow off some steam in their gym. Turns out the boss thinks I'm pretty great and offered to pay me to keep showing up there. Like a poster boy or something," which isn't quite a lie, but that's okay. Seth doesn't need to know the details. Seth watches him for a moment, searching for anything that might be amiss. He was one of the few people who could read Dean, and even he had a bit of a hard time sometimes –and he had known him longer than anyone!

"I'm just trying to pick up the slack," Dean says, turning serious now. This much is one-hundred percent true. "You've been watching my six for most of my life, Seth. I thought it was time I watched yours." Seth met his eyes. Crystal blue with not a hint of a lie. He sighs.

"You don't…you know you don't owe me anything. You're my best friend."

Dean shrugs. "If it wasn't for you, I know I would've been dead or in prison before either of us were eighteen." He touches Seth's shoulder and shakes him lazily. "Now, shut up and let me make pancakes. And you're gonna sit the fuck down and eat 'em and enjoy 'em whether you want to or not."

Seth shakes his head. "I can't. It's Saturday."

Dean nods, turning back towards the box of mix. "I know. So what?"

"So, I can't stay long, I'll be late," Seth's voice trails off into occupied silence as he pulls out his phone. Dean waits for the next moment, bracing himself for Seth's reaction.

The sound he makes is incredible.

"Shit!"

"What?" Dean asks innocently, his back still to Seth.

"It's four in the afternoon?!"

"Surprise," Dean throws over his shoulder. Seth snaps his head up to look at him. His face contorts into confusion. "What?"

"Surprise," Dean repeats simply. "Y'know. Inconspicuous acts of emotional events, or whatever. I read that in a dictionary once, you should try it."

"No, I mean –fuck," Seth hurtles out of the kitchen, his thunderous footsteps fading towards the back of the apartment, "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because I didn't want to. You're a deadman walking and who works on Saturdays anyway? You're supposed to be a couch potato all day, drinking beer, watching the game, scratching your balls like everyone else," Dean shouts back, turning on the oven. "So I called Nat and told 'er you weren't coming in today. Surprise!"

He pauses and tilts his head to one side as he tries to measure out the correct amount of mix, but eventually gives up and just dumps a generous amount into the bowl. "By the way, who is Summer Rae, and why does she ask so many questions about you?"

He hears Seth creeping back to the kitchen doorway. "You did what?" His voice is the essence of quiet danger, a coiled viper, the sound of icicles falling. Dean recognizes that tone of voice; he was usually on the receiving end whenever it made an appearance. Dean turns around. "I called in for you and got you today and tomorrow off. Natalya was cool with it; said she understood that you worked yourself like a dog and that she wouldn't let you come within fifty feet of the store."

"I can't afford to have today and tomorrow off," Seth says, shaking his head.

"Well, you can't afford to be twenty years old and a zombie because you only ever work and go to school and come home and do homework," counters Dean. "You're driving yourself to death, man. It's okay to take a break. You deserve that." He shook his head as he spread the liquid mix over the hot skillet. "You deserve better than that."

Friday comes around quicker than Dean expected.

He walks the route back to the Devil's Handbag on his own and gets into the building through the back. He stuffs one hand into his pocket and keeps the other around the strap of his backpack as he meanders into the main store floor. Immediately, someone recognizes him.

"Dean!"

Dean turns his head to see Hunter grinning at him, waving him over to the bar. Kaitlyn smiles at him as he approaches, and Dean nods at her, noting the curious goggles on her head. Those are pretty cool.

"I'm back," Dean says, stopping in front of the tall man. Hunter nods, grinning widely. "You're back. So you are. Follow me, kid; we've got a lot to talk about before your fight." Dean's lips twitch, curling back into an eager, slightly manic grin. He'd been looking forward to this.

Kaitlyn slides a cold Coke can across the bar to Dean before he goes and winks at him. "It's on the house," she says. Dean nods at her, raising his can in thanks and follows after Hunter. As they walk, Hunter comments, "Looks like you've raised quite a fanbase since your debut."

Dean glances around at the faces that brighten in awed excitement and some in barely subdued anger as he passes by. He guesses they're aimed at him, because there is obviously no way that those death glares are for Hunter, and shrugs. "Looks like it," he replies. Hunter guides him to a huge whiteboard in the front end of the store near the old checkout counters. Someone has written nearly a dozen names on the surface of it, each one bracketed with a set of numbers.

"Say hello to our leaderboard," says Hunter. "Underneath it is all of our betting pool offices, which are run by these lovely individuals," he points at each person standing at the checkout counters, "Jamie, Joey, and the twins Nikki and Brie. They handle the bets put on each match."

The twins wave in sync, looking almost identical in their black tank tops and cutoff shorts. Joey and Jamie aren't quite as flirtatious in their greeting, and simply give Dean a two-fingered salute. Hunter gestures to the leaderboard again. "Each fighter's name is written here. If you don't see your name up here, then you aren't fighting that night. The numbers are the win-loss record of each fighter. The draw is random, so no one knows who they're fighting until they come look at the board." Hunter regards the board for a moment and smirks. "Looks like you've got one of our vets."

Dean peers up at the board, searching for his name.

Ambrose (1-0) vs. Reigns (45-1)

Dean cocks his head to one side. Fancy that.

"The order of the board is the order of the night's fights," Hunter explains. "So, tonight, you'll be going third." Dean nods in understanding and follows as Hunter begins leading him someplace else. "What's the deal with the 'king of the ring' title?" he asks. He'd noticed that on one end of the board, a fight had already been predetermined for a Friday night a few weeks from today. The Annual King of the Ring match, it boasted.

"King of the Ring is our grudge match. All the fighters go at each other tournament style and the last man standing wins. The current king has been undefeated for two tournaments," says Hunter.

So then that Barrett guy was an undisputed champion then? Maybe he wasn't as green as Dean had initially thought. He was an arrogant prick, but at least he'd earned the right to be.

They stop at the old pharmacist's office. "This is the Kid's office. He's the assistant manager here at the Devil's Handbag. Over all, he's a pretty cool guy, but you really don't want to get on his bad side."

Dean nods. "Met him last night. He's kinda weird, if you don't mind me saying."

Hunter shrugs. "Fair enough."

Towards the back is another door, but this one is made of dark wood with a golden knob. It's just a door, not an old deli or a bakery. Just a door. Hunter pulls out a ring of keys and chooses a small brass one. "This," he says as the lock clicks and the door swings open, "is the manager's office."

Inside is a desk and chair, a few filing cabinets, a lamp and a laptop. It isn't grandiose or even that much different from a regular cubicle setting. But something about the atmosphere of the room made it cold and dungeon-like.

Like a crypt that shouldn't be opened. A graveyard.

Dean shifted uneasily on his feet. "Feels like a morgue in here."

Hunter laughs and returns the keys to his pocket. "Not really. That prestigious honor goes to the director's office; I'll show you where that is, though I really doubt you'll actually need to go anywhere near it. But this," he gestures to the manager's space, "is where the head guy works."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "And who's that?"

Hunter glanced at him and then stepped inside the office. He dropped into the chair and placed his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together. "You're lookin' at him."

Dean blinks owlishly. "Well, fuck."

Hunter grins. "Don't worry. If you're ever in here, it'll probably be because I need to talk to you."

"Just to talk, huh?"

Hunter nods, suddenly solemn. "Just to talk. If there's ever a need to 'talk' otherwise, the back alley is always open." He levels a stony look at Dean. Dean holds it valiantly and slowly nods once.

"I got it."

Hunter watches him for a moment more, and then stands. "Good. But I don't think we'll ever need to resort to that. So long as you keep fighting like you did last week and stay in people's good graces." He hovers just at the doorjamb and points across from them at the glass meat display cases. "The old deli over there is the director's office. You really don't want to go in there, trust me. Only the Kid and I are allowed in there, and if you find yourself being called into the director's office…" Hunter trails off and raises his hands. "Only God can help you."

Dean eyed the dark deli warily. "Who's the director?"

Hunter frowns and doesn't say. "It's better you not know. Anyway, I've got some things to finish up here. Wait around for your match. Do whatever you want, there aren't really any rules here. But don't start shit with anyone. All the fighting has to happen in the ring, got it?"

Dean looks back at the manager. "Yeah, I'm square."

And with a nod, Hunter disappears back into the cold darkness of the office. It's almost like a coffin being closed from the world. Dean shudders slightly and heads back towards the mass of people.

"Creep."