Issue 2 fight

Panel 1:Inside Club Noche's VIP entertainment section, low amber lighting casts long shadows across plush seating. Kaleen sits on a velvet couch in her emerald-green satin dress, her body angled away from the MMA fighter who looms over her. His hand grips her shoulder; she pushes back against his chest with both palms, her face tense and uncomfortable. The fighter's expression is aggressive and dismissive. Around them, the ambient club glow illuminates the space but keeps the background soft and blurred. Slik is watching from far.

“MMA star: Come on, don't be like that.”

Narrator:“Sliks opponent for tonight. A disgraced MMA star with a history of domestic violence. ”

Panel 2:Kaleen's face in close-up, her wide hazel eyes widened with frustration and fear. Her jaw is set. The fighter's hand is still visible at the edge of the frame, pulling back slightly as he loses interest.

“Kaleen: Get off me.”

Panel 3:The MMA fighter stands abruptly, his chest heaving with irritation. He adjusts his shirt and turns away from Kaleen without a word, walking toward the back corridors of the club. His posture is dismissive, his face a sneer of arrogance.

Panel 4:Slik stands in the corridor as the MMA fighter passes. The fighter's sneer intensifies as he speaks. Slik's face is neutral, his muscular frame still in shadow, but his dark eyes track the fighter. The hallway is narrow, lit by red neon strips along the walls. The mma star and Slik speak face to face.

“MMA star: I hope you fight better than the women you got working here.”

Panel 5:Slik's face in extreme close-up. His pupils dilate. His jaw tightens imperceptibly. Behind him, a violent vision blooms in his mind's eye—a grayscale, fragmented image of Slik's hands around a man's throat, the man's face contorted in terror and pain, blood spray in the air. The vision is raw and brutal, lasting only a moment before snapping back to reality.

Narrator:“Sliks anger triggers a violent memory. A kill. His hands. His rage.”

Panel 6:Slik stands motionless in the corridor, his expression now blank and distant. The neon lights reflect off his face. He does not respond to the fighter's insult. His hands hang at his sides, fingers slightly flexed. The air around him feels heavy and dangerous.

Panel 1:Creed Rivers stands at the edge of Club Noche's main arena floor, partially obscured by shadow. His eyes are fixed on the entrance tunnel where the MMA fighter will emerge. The arena itself is a sunken fighting pit ringed by metal barriers and roaring spectators. The lighting is harsh neon—white and red—casting everything in stark relief. Creed's posture is still and observant.

Narrator:“Creed scouts the layout. Watches. Waits for the target.”

Panel 2:The MMA fighter bursts through the curtain entrance, arms raised high, his face split with a confident grin. He flexes and plays to the crowd, who cheer loudly. His body language is loose and cocky—he expects an easy victory. He wears fighting gloves and minimal clothing, his muscular frame on full display.

“MMA star: Let's go! Who's ready?”

Panel 3:Slik emerges through the opposite curtain in stark contrast. No celebration, no noise. His face is expressionless, his eyes cold and focused. He walks silently toward the center of the ring, his muscular frame moving with controlled precision. The crowd's chant rises—'SLIK! SLIK! SLIK!'—but he does not acknowledge it. His gaze is locked on the fighter.

Narrator:“Slik enters silent. The crowd knows what comes next.”

Panel 4:The bell rings. The MMA fighter throws a lazy, confident jab aimed at Slik's face. His form is sloppy—he's showing off, not fighting seriously. Slik doesn't dodge. Instead, he pivots and delivers a brutal leg kick that connects directly with the fighter's peroneal nerve just below the knee. The impact is audible—a sharp crack. The fighter's leg buckles; he stumbles backward, his expression transforming from arrogance to pain.

Panel 5:The MMA fighter's face contorts in pain and rage. He swings harder now, desperation in his movements. His punches are wild and powerful—one connects flush against Slik's cheek, snapping his head to the side. Blood sprays from Slik's mouth; a thin line of red runs from his nostril. But Slik's expression doesn't change. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't retreat. He simply stares at the fighter with blank, inhuman eyes.

“MMA star: Motherfucker...”

Panel 6:Slik's face in extreme close-up. Blood drips from his lip and nostril. His pupils are dilated. Behind his eyes, the same violent vision flashes—hands around a throat, a man dying. The vision is brief, fragmentary, a glitch in reality. When it clears, Slik's mouth opens and he releases a roar—a primal, guttural sound of rage and something darker. The sound reverberates through the arena.

Narrator:“The monster stirs.”

Panel 1:Slik moves forward with sudden ferocity. The MMA fighter shoots for a takedown, desperate to regain control. Slik pivots explosively, reversing the takedown. He grabs the fighter's body and drives him hard to the mat. The impact is devastating—the air explodes from the fighter's lungs. Slik immediately swarms him, raining down relentless knees and elbows to the fighter's ribs and body. The crowd erupts.

Narrator:“The star shoots for a takedown, but Slik is too quick.”

Panel 2:Slik's elbow cracks down toward the fighter's face. The fighter's head snaps to the side. Slik continues the assault—more elbows, more knees. The fighter is trapped beneath him, unable to escape, taking punishment. Blood streams down the fighter's face. Slik's expression is blank, mechanical, as if he's operating on pure instinct.

Panel 3:Slik locks In a knee bar and the fighter taps.

Narrator:“Slik locks In a knee bar and the fighter taps. ”

Panel 4:Despite the mma star rapping out, Slik holds the knee bar and snaps the mma stars knee. The star screams in pain

“MMA star: Tap! Tap! TAP!”

Narrator:“Slik doesn’t let go…he tears the mma stars knee.”

Panel 5:Slik releases the hold and stands. The fighter collapses on the mat, his leg bent at a grotesque angle, unable to move. The crowd roars with approval. Slik walks toward the fighter's head, his breathing heavy, his face still blank. He reaches down and grabs the fighter's upper lip and teeth with one massive hand, his grip brutal and precise.

Panel 6:Slik drags the fighter—his hand still gripping the man's upper lip and teeth—toward the ramp that leads to the curtained entrance. The fighter's body trails behind him, limp and broken. His screams of pain continue. The crowd watches in stunned silence, then erupts with cheers. Slik pulls the fighter up the ramp and behind the heavy black curtain. The curtain closes, cutting off the view of what happens next. The arena falls silent except for muffled sounds from behind the curtain.

Narrator:“Slik sticks his hand into the fighters mouth, latching on to the upper row of his teeth. He drags him up to the ramp, pulling him behind the curtain where they made their entrance from. The curtain closes, covering what happens next.”

Panel 1:Creed Rivers stands motionless at the edge of the arena floor. His face is shadowed, his eyes wide with realization and horror. Around him, the crowd continues to cheer and celebrate Slik's victory, but Creed is frozen, processing what he just witnessed. His hand is clenched into a fist at his side. Behind him, the black curtain obscures the ramp where Slik dragged the fighter.

Narrator:“JP's words echo in Creed's mind: 'Don't let his brother get involved.'”

Panel 2:A flashback image in Creed's mind: JP's pale, sweating face from their earlier interrogation. JP's wide, terrified hazel eyes stare directly at Creed. His mouth is open, mid-sentence, his disheveled black hair framing his anxious expression. He wears his rumpled black collared shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

“JP: There's a monster inside him.”

Narrator:“JP had warned him. Creed hadn't fully understood the depth of that warning until now.”

Panel 3:Back to present. Creed stands in the shadows at the arena's edge. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are fixed on the curtain. The roaring crowd around him is a blur, their celebration distant and muffled. Creed's expression hardens—he's a man realizing that his mission just became infinitely more dangerous and complicated. In the background, the black curtain remains closed, hiding whatever violence Slik is committing beyond sight.

Narrator:“Joker was the target. But Slik... Slik is something else entirely.”

Panel 4:A wide shot of the entire Club Noche arena. The crowd is on their feet, cheering and celebrating. The black curtain at the entrance ramp is still closed. Creed stands alone in the foreground, separated from the celebration, his silhouette framed against the neon glow. The arena feels like a pit—a place where violence is worshipped and monsters are born. The mood is one of triumph and dread intertwined.

Narrator:“If he kills Joker and Slik gets involved... there's no walking away from this alive.”