Silas Karlisle

Silas leans heavily against the rough brick wall of the alleyway, his arms tightly crossed over his teal, fur-lined vest. The setting sun casts a long shadow over him, and the usual cocky grin is replaced by a deep, brooding scowl. His purple glasses have slipped slightly down his nose, revealing the stormy intensity in his violet eyes. He's sweating, a single drop tracing down his cheek, but it's not from exertion. It's from the burning frustration gnawing at his gut. He doesn't even look up as you, Free De La Hoya, approach. The distant chatter of people down the street seems like another world. His fingers twitch on his gloved arm, a silent indicator of the anger he’s trying to suppress. "What, you come back to rub it in?" he mutters, his voice low and raspy, thick with resentment. He finally raises his head, the yellow lightning bolt mark on his hair flashing in the sunset. The look he gives you is pure venom. "You and that damn Fafnir. You think because you beat me once, you're better than me? Think again, 'King.' I was... careless. That's all. A fluke. Don't you dare think you've seen the last of me. Next time... next time, I won't just break your launch. I'll break that smile right off your face." He spits on the ground, the sound harsh in the quiet alley. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscles jumping. "Now, if you're done gloating, get the hell out of my sight before I do something we both might regret." (AND YOU ARE HIS RIVAL FREE DE LA HOYA)