Resonance Unbound

Noise erupted—a thunderous wave of hooting and cheering that rattled the air like an earthquake. Ezra's ears rang from the sheer volume of it all, the pulse of excitement vibrating through the concrete floor beneath his feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the fight of the century is about to begin!" the announcer's voice boomed through massive speakers, drowning out the crowd's excitement.

 "In one corner, we have the undefeated legend, Annakin The Wolf! With an impeccable record of 20 victories 0 defeats, he has clawed his way to the top, leaving no opponent standing. A rising star who's fought his way up the ranks with unmatched ferocity!"

The crowd roared in response, a cacophony of shouts and whistles echoing in the cavernous underground arena. Ezra's eyes scanned the chaos before him—people crammed shoulder to shoulder, fists pumping in the air, faces twisted in either excitement or raw aggression.

Flickering neon lights painted the mob in chaotic hues of red and blue, while the heavy smell of alcohol, sweat, and smoke clung to the stagnant air.

"And in the other corner!," the announcer continued, his tone rising with dramatic flair, "the challenger with a reputation that sends shivers down spines—the man who buries his opponents—Carlos The Undertaker! Place your bets now, folks—this is a fight you don't want to miss!"

The noise reached a deafening crescendo as the announcement ended, the anticipation practically electrifying the air. Roars and cheers reverberated off the walls of the dimly lit building Shirley and Ezra had just entered.

Inside, it was chaos. The place was packed wall to wall with people crammed together, all jostling for space as they eagerly awaited the fight. The glow of flickering neon lights bathed the crowd in eerie colors, while the smell of sweat, alcohol, and smoke hung heavy in the air.

A sea of faces stretched in every direction—some leaning on railings overlooking the ring, others shouting bets at bookkeepers scrambling to keep up.

Excitement thrummed through the crowd, building with every second as they prepared for the clash of titans.

"That bastard should be here somewhere," Shirley muttered under his breath, his voice gruff with irritation. "Gambling all his bloody earnings away."

Ezra followed closely, trying to weave through the throng of rowdy spectators. Suddenly, a waiter carrying a tray of massive beer jugs barreled into him, drenching him from head to toe in cold, frothy liquid.

"Watch where you're going, kid," the waiter snarled, his broken teeth glinting in the dim light. His voice was low and menacing, his expression one of barely restrained anger.

Ezra froze, glaring at his now-soaked clothes before the words slipped out. "Do people not brush their teeth here?"

The waiter's face contorted with rage, his fists clenching as a vein throbbed in his forehead.

Oh, shit. Ezra's heart sank as he realized, too late, that he'd said it out loud.

"Uh… sorry!" he mumbled hastily, ducking his head and slipping away into the crowd before the waiter could respond. He weaved between the tightly packed bodies, the sound of the man's angry curses fading as he moved farther into the chaos.

Shirley turned to look at Ezra, one eyebrow raised in exasperation. "What the hell did you do now?"

"Nothing!" Ezra shot back defensively, wringing his shirt out as he caught up. "I'm just… blending in."

"Blending in?" Shirley snorted. Without another word, he grabbed Ezra by the collar and pulled him toward the corner of the room.

"Stay here. Do not move. I'll be back soon," Shirley growled. "And for the love of everything, stay out of trouble."

"No need to emphasize the 'stay,'" Ezra muttered, dismissing Shirley with a wave of his hand.

Shirley shot him one last glare before disappearing into the crowd.

Meanwhile, the announcer's voice roared back to life through the speakers, carrying the weight of the crowd's excitement.

"Annakin The Wolf! The legend who never shows his face. Carlos The Undertaker! Who will claim victory tonight? This is the fight we've all been waiting for!"

"ANNAKIN! ANNAKIN! ANNAKIN!" The crowd erupted, cheering his name in unison, drowning out the chants of Carlos' supporters.

"Of course Annakin will win," someone in the crowd yelled.

"No, it's Carlos! You really think a newbie can take him down?"

"I'll bet all my money Annakin's streak ends tonight," another retorted, their voice full of conviction.

"It's the longest-awaited fight, talked about for months," one grumbled, their tone edged with annoyance. "All the investors are here to buy their guard dogs."

Standing near the ring, the commentator—a rotund, pompous man with a protruding belly—grinned broadly. Dressed like a flamboyant peacock in garish, mismatched colors, his over-exaggerated outfit was almost as loud as the crowd. His massive mustache, curled upwards at the tips, pointed toward the sides of his ruddy face as he leaned into the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the betting begins now!" he bellowed, his voice filled with an infectious enthusiasm. "Place your bets, and let the games begin!"

Ezra observed from the corner, shaking his head as the commentator rambled on. How gluttonous can one person be? he thought, taking in the man's over-the-top performance with a mix of bemusement and disdain.

Ezra flinched, both in disgust and shock, as he caught the conversation unfolding behind him. He turned slowly to see three women huddled together, each dressed as garishly as the commentator in the ring.

Their overdrawn eyebrows and thick, exaggerated makeup made them look like caricatures, while their bright red lipstick clashed against the overly ornate corsets and cuffs they wore.

Fans fluttered in their hands, and wide-brimmed hats topped their heads, completing the theatrical display.

"I mean, just look at his body," one of the women purred, her voice dripping with exaggerated longing. "I'm sure his face is just as handsome, though I could do without those ugly scars on his chest. But, oh, if he's as gorgeous as I imagine, I wouldn't mind one bit."

The second woman giggled, leaning closer. "I'd love to run my hands down his chest and stomach. Can you imagine how hard his muscles must be?" She fanned herself dramatically, her cheeks flushed under the thick layer of rouge. "And imagine what he's got under—"

Ezra grimaced, cutting her off in his own head. Nope. Not listening to that. He turned away sharply, clenching his fists to suppress his visible discomfort.

The sickly sweet perfume radiating from the women was almost suffocating, mixing with the oppressive smell of sweat, alcohol, and stale humidity that clung to the air of the building. It made Ezra's stomach churn.

The third woman leaned in, her voice dripping with excitement. "If I'm lucky, I'll get him tonight. Just imagine it! I'd be the envy of everyone. Oh, he's going to be mine."

"I'm betting all my savings on him," the first woman declared with a dramatic wave of her fan. "He's not just going to win—he's going to dominate."

Ezra's face contorted as he tried to shake off the mental image her words painted. He muttered under his breath, "What is wrong with people?"

He glanced around, desperate to escape the suffocating combination of their giddy voices and cloying perfume. Just as he took a step back, one of the women turned her attention to him.

"Well, well," she said, her painted lips curling into a mischievous grin. "What do we have here? Fresh meat?"

Ezra's eyes widened, and he instinctively took another step back. "Uh, no thanks," he said quickly, raising his hands defensively. "Just… here for the fight."

The trio giggled, their laughter grating and far too loud. "Oh, don't be shy, darling," one of them cooed, twirling her fan. "We don't bite… much."

Ezra turned on his heel and bolted into the crowd, the sound of their laughter following him like a bad memory. Shirley better get back soon, he thought, weaving through the sea of bodies. Because this place is getting weirder by the second.