Limbo. That place of ineffable silence. Of complete darkness. Where the God's didn't even dare tread. That murkiness beyond the veil, where the corners peeled back to reveal shadows upon shadows. Likely, life's demonic shell of an existence when it decided enough was enough. Turned up its nose as it curled its toes up. What Adonis now found himself in the throngs of, kneeling.

Pitch black. He couldn't describe it any other way. It folded over his shoulders earlier and as soon as he walked into the Gym. As he pulled up a seat at Dante's. Undid the napkin of hope, ripped it to shreds and feasted on it. None of that weakness existed here. It couldn't, not where he was going, where the heaviness all but broke the camels back. It lingered on your shoulders. For days on end. Weeks. Months. Lifetimes. Just waiting. And he felt it nearly that time as he raised his hands to his face.

A light rub. Brushing away the cobwebs of apathy. What could get him killed out there. What becomes the key to the doorway of Purgatory. He was on knees before a mirror. A wall to floor offering in the locker room. Sweat and water dripping down his face, neck and naked torso. He wiped at the liquid thrills, flicking some off, but knowingly keeping the cool sensation from being completely washed away.

He'd been here before. He grew up here. In the pit of the gateway to hell. At the bottom of the stairwell, as souls marched up one by one, singing tunes of God knows what. Some looked like soldiers, left foot right foot. Some, like reluctant prisoners, on the way to an uncertain now. But not Adonis. He'd been here before. Was born here.

He leaned forward, raising his hands to be in front of his face. An offering of his soul. Whatever was left of it. And to whomever wanted the last pieces. The Angels. The Demons. The God's that put it all in motion. He had zero fucks to give. Just a dream. A legacy. And a legend to build. He slapped his taut hands against his handsome mug, shaking and screaming as he did. This was it. It was go time.

Up he hopped. Like a fire had lit his ass beneath him. The screaming continued. The relentless, reckless shouting. The face of a lion. The heart of a warrior. He punched his fists into the glass before him. Snap. Snap. Snap. Natural instincts kicking in. His eyes wide. Fury, inside. Burning out of his hot blue pupils setting the mirror on fire.

He was ready. Was born ready. This was it. That moment where champions were made. The chalk before the outline. The hellish delight before fight night. Purgatory, Race Street. Where legends are made.