Damon got out of the cab, standing in front of the community hall. The bright sunlight hit him, casting a warm light over the scene.
He stretched his arms, feeling the weight of his kit in the plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
He paid the driver, handing over the fare with a nod of thanks. The driver took the money, his eyes flicking to the plastic bag before returning to the road.
Damon turned to face the community hall, his eyes scanning the building.
He walked towards the entrance, his feet echoing off the pavement. The guards stood at the door, their eyes watchful and alert. They patted him down, their hands moving quickly and efficiently over his body.
Damon stood still, his arms raised as the guards checked him for any prohibited items. He felt a sense of calm wash over him, his focus fixed on the fight ahead.
He got to his room, the same room he had been in before, and began to prepare for the weigh-in. He placed the plastic bag containing his kit on the table and started to change into his shorts.
He took off his pants and shirt, and then slipped on the shorts. He had noticed last time that fighters were not wearing underwear, so he followed suit. The shorts felt lightweight and comfortable against his skin.
Damon stood in front of the mirror, checking his reflection. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the task ahead. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, and then exhaled slowly.
A knock came at the door, and Damon got up to follow the guy who had knocked.
He didn't really need to follow him, since he still remembered the direction to the weigh-in room from last time.
But he followed anyway, his feet carrying him down the familiar hallway.
As he walked, the sound of murmured conversations and shuffling feet filled the air.
The smell of sweat and adrenaline wafted through the corridor, mingling with the scent of freshly cleaned floors.
Damon stood in front of a door, waiting for his turn to enter. He could hear the sound of voices inside, the rustling of papers, and the beeping of the scale.
Then, he heard it. "123 for Mark Handerson, he makes weight!" The voice was loud and clear, and it was followed by a small applause.
As he exited the hallway, Damon bumped into Mr. Steele, who was standing with his arms crossed, eyeing him up and down. "Good luck out there," Mr. Steele said, his voice firm but encouraging. "I hope you bring your best."
Mr. Steele patted Damon on the shoulder, his hand making a soft thudding sound on Damon's skin.
Damon nodded, feeling a sense of determination wash over him. He continued walking, his feet carrying him back to his room.
As he entered his room, Damon sat down on the bench, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, and then exhaled slowly.
He looked at himself, taking in the sight of his lean physique, his focused eyes, and his determined expression. "It's time," he said to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words hung in the air, a simple statement of fact. It was time to put everything on the line, time to give it his all, time to show everyone what he was capable of.
Damon's gaze lingered on his reflection for a moment longer, and then he stood up, his movements swift and decisive.
He began to dress, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he put on his gear.
Damon wrapped his hands with the gloves, the soft padding enveloping his fingers as he secured them tightly.
He then slipped on the fighting shorts, the lightweight material hugging his legs snugly.
Finally, he inserted the mouthguard, the plastic molding to his teeth as he bit down on it, ready to absorb any impact.
As he finished preparing, Damon took a moment to survey himself in the mirror. His eyes narrowed, his gaze intense, as he checked his gear.
The gloves were secure, the shorts were in place, and the mouthguard was fitted perfectly.
[QUEST ISSUED]
[QUEST: WIN THE MATCH]
[REWARD: 10 COINS]