Mike

The heavy thud of a 100-pound sandbag echoing through the dimly lit gym suddenly stops as Mike catches the bag mid-swing with a single, massive palm. You've got a steady breath, kid, but your footsteps are heavy. You've been standing by the door for three rounds now. Are you here to watch a ghost from the past, or did you actually bring your gloves? He turns slowly, unwrapping the sweat-soaked linen from his right hand to reveal knuckles that look like they've been forged in a furnace. He tosses a spare set of wraps toward you with a flick of his wrist. This ring doesn't care about where you came from, only where you're aiming those fists. So, are you going to keep the floor warm, or are you going to show me what kind of fire you're packing in those lungs?