Issue 3 part 1

Panel 1:Creed Rivers moves through the crowded dance floor of Club Noche, weaving between bodies grinding to pounding music. Strobe lights flash across his face as he passes dealers exchanging cash, couples locked in embraces, and security scanning the crowd. His military posture is controlled, deliberate—eyes tracking exits and sightlines. Sweat glistens on skin under neon pink and blue lighting.

Narrator:“After the fight, Creed moves deeper into Club Noche. He hast a layout to confirm. A mission to complete.”

Panel 2:Creed slips through a side door marked 'STAFF ONLY' into a dimly lit hallway. The bass still pounds through the walls, but the space is quieter. Red emergency exit signs glow at intervals. His hand trails along the concrete wall as he moves forward, taking mental notes of the corridor layout.

Narrator:“His military training makes infiltration second nature. But this place—this is different.”

Panel 3:Creed reaches a stairwell with metal steps and climbs upward. Through a small window in the stairwell door, he glimpses the upper level—quieter, more controlled. His jaw is set. The weight of his mission settles across his shoulders.

Narrator:“Eventually creed makes it to the upper floors. A restricted area for Club Noche staff.”

Panel 4:At the top of the stairs, Creed pushes through the door into a hallway lined with private doors and offices. The music is muted here. He sees a utility sink ahead—and Slik, shirtless, washing blood from his hands and forearms. The water running in the sink is deep crimson, swirling red down the drain. Slik's muscled back is taut, his head down, focused on cleaning.

Narrator:“Then he finds the monster ”

Panel 5:Slik's head snaps up. He spots Creed through a mirror on the utility sink.

Panel 6:Slik straightens, water still dripping from his forearms. His voice is calm, measured—the voice of someone used to authority and violence.

“Slik: You don't look like you belong here.”

Panel 1:Creed's face remains composed, unflinching. His eyes are steady, his voice level. Don’t have Slik in this shot. Just a close up of creed

“Creed Rivers: Neither do you.”

Panel 2:Slik dries his hands on a towel, his posture shifting—shoulders rolling back, body language asserting dominance. He steps slightly closer to Creed. Slik should still be shirtless here showing muscles and tats.

“Slik: This area isn't for customers. What are you doing up here?”

Panel 3:Creed's eyes remain steady. He speaks as if he's rehearsed the lie a hundred times—controlled, measured, confident. Creed and Slik speaking face to face. Slik still shirtless.

“Creed Rivers: I saw your fight earlier. It was impressive. I just got back from the military. I need cash. I want in on these fights.”

Narrator:“Creeds delivers his cover story without hesitation. ”

Panel 4:Before Slik can respond, footsteps echo down the hallway. Joker steps into view, moving with the casual confidence of absolute authority. He wears an expensive black shirt, sleeves rolled up, gold chains visible. His eyes flick between Creed and Slik, assessing.

“Joker: So you come up here uninvited and tell us what you want?”

Panel 5:Joker steps closer to Creed, squinting slightly. His expression shifts—recognition dawning. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. Slik still shirtless.

“Joker: Wait a second... I know you. You're Frank's kid, aren't you?”

Panel 1:Joker chuckles, his voice dripping with amusement. He circles Creed slowly, like a predator evaluating prey.

“Joker: You had quite the reputation. They said you were a natural-born killer. Even in high school.”

Panel 2:Joker steps directly in front of Creed, his smile hardening into something predatory. His voice drops lower, more dangerous.

“Joker: This is a nice surprise. I'd love to see what you can do in the ring.”

Panel 3:Joker spreads his arms slightly, inviting. His expression is amused but his eyes are cold.

“Joker: The night's still young. We can set up a little tryout for you.”

Panel 4:Creed shakes his head slightly. His voice is calm, measured—attempting to control the situation.

“Creed Rivers: I just came to talk details. I'm not ready to fight tonight.”

Panel 5:Joker's smile doesn't fade—it hardens into something cruel. He leans in, his voice flat and absolute.

“Joker: You came here to fight. So we're giving you a fight.”

Panel 6:Joker leans even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries absolute authority.

“Joker: Not just any fight. A man of your caliber deserves a real test.”

Panel 1:Joker grins wider, stepping back. His arms spread as if welcoming Creed to his fate.

“Joker: So we're not giving you one opponent. We're giving you two.”

Panel 2:Joker steps back further, his smile predatory. Behind Creed, Slik's expression shifts—a flicker of something like recognition crosses his face.

“Joker: Good luck, killer.”

Panel 3:A close up on Creed standing in the club noche ring shirtless.

Narrator:“Later that night: Creed stands in the ring. The crowd doesn’t cheer for him. Just silent curiosity.”