"Hey, doesn't the name Bull-Head Boxer sound familiar to you?" Bun asked Mohawk as the two walked toward the monorail station.

"Now that you mention it, yeah, it does sound familiar," Mohawk replied. He scratched his head, seemingly in thought. "But where did I hear that name before?"

"Maybe we bashed someone like that?" Bun wondered.

"No, I'd remember if we did." Mohawk squinted. Suddenly, he leaped forward like an excited child. "Ah, I got it! Remember that idiot from the Iron Bull Gym?"

"Oh yeah," Bun replied. "Let's go see him."

Traveling to a district known as the Backstreets, they ventured into a labyrinth where the poorest residents of Lower Babel eked out an existence. Small, cluttered apartments crowded the narrow alleys, nestled between the city's heart and its fringes. The scent of damp stone and stale air mingled with distant murmurs, while flickering neon signs cast an anemic glow, painting the world in hues of desolation.

At the heart of the district, inside an old basement, stood a boxing gym opened by a legendary figure—a man known as the Bull-Head Boxer. He alone stood proud, defending regular people from abuse by contractors, and he did it as an ordinary man. Many regarded him as a hero who faced danger unflinchingly; no matter how badly he was beaten, he would never fall and always emerged victorious. This is how the legend of the Bull-Head Boxer was born. His spirit lingered like a forgotten melody in the hushed whispers of the Backstreets.

Years ago, the Bull-Head Boxer took in three kids, orphans he found on the streets. He fed them and raised them as his own, molding them into his disciples.

It was already past midnight by the time the two arrived at the Iron Bull. The chilly, damp air carried a weight of solitude, an eerie premonition hanging in the silence. The buildings within the district were all old, constructed before the Cataclysm; some were on the verge of collapsing, and others had already crumbled. Shadows stretched long and deep, embracing the worn facades like memories clinging to the past.

The boxing gym was nestled among crowded housing, hidden within a basement. Outside stood a sign fashioned in the shape of two horns. A faint light flickered behind grimy windows, casting ghostly silhouettes that danced to an unheard rhythm.

"Knock, knock," Mohawk said, smashing his fist against the door.

However, there was no response; only a constant banging could be heard from within.

"I know you're there, fucker! Open up!" Mohawk continued screaming.

"Leave," a masculine voice replied.

"We can't," Bun said, "not before we find you."

"So come right out," Mohawk screamed, "whoever it is you actually are!"

"No," the person replied, as the rhythmic pummeling of a punching bag continued.

"Aghhh!" Mohawk screamed in frustration. "Listen here, you fucker, you better come out right now or I'll burn this entire place down!" He channeled a small flame in his fingers.

The door creaked open. Inside stood an extremely tall man with short black hair and a wide, muscular frame. His gray hoodie was soaked in sweat, matching his red boxing bandages. His eyes bore the weight of countless battles.

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"Are you here to collect your debt?" the tall man asked.

"No, they're here because I asked them to find you," Zeke said in a robotic tone, emerging from the shadows. He stood cloaked in ragged black, a mask concealing his face. Beside him stood Fox, wearing his regular clothes. The two were barely lit by the dim streetlights, appearing like specters haunting the night's embrace.

"You followed us?!" Mohawk screamed out.

"More like trailed from afar," Fox remarked.

"Who the hell are you?" the tall, burly man wondered.

"Have you heard of the Prowler?" Zeke asked.

"Some bigshot underling of the Contractor King," the man remarked.

"Well, I'm that bigshot," Zeke explained. "And this beside me is Fox."

"THE PROWLER!?!" Mohawk and Bun screamed out in terror.

"Nice to meet you," Fox nodded.

"Why are you looking for me?" the man asked in a confrontational manner.

"I'll tell you, but first, tell me, who exactly are you?" Zeke asked.

"Me?" The man stammered. "My name is Mitch."

"Mitch." Zeke paused. "I came here to tell you about Elaine. She told me about you and Jamie. I know she cherished you deeply. The thing is, Elaine... she passed away about five months ago. Killed by a man named Ulmak just as she obtained a contract," he explained in a cold, robotic tone, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

The man's dark complexion suddenly turned pale. A tremor ran through him as if the very ground had shifted beneath his feet.

"I see," he murmured. "My sister, Elaine... how did you know her?"

"We were," Zeke briefly paused, "intimate..."

"Intimate," Mitch whispered. "Oh, I see." He paused deeply in thought. "My sister, did you love her?"

"I'm not sure. I enjoyed her company and liked spending time with her, but I don't know if I can call it love. Had I been there with her when it happened, I would have gladly sacrificed myself for her. And maybe then, perhaps, I would have loved her. But as it is right now, I do not know," Zeke explained, his voice betraying a flicker of regret he could not suppress.

"Does it hurt you to say something nice?" Fredric asked in a slightly angry tone.

"No matter what I say or do matters. She's dead; nothing will change that." Zeke clenched his fist.

"Still, he just found out he lost his sister." Fredric placed his hand firmly on Zeke's shoulder.

"You're right," Mitch murmured. "All I can do now is get revenge."

"I'm afraid you can't do that," Zeke sighed.

"Are you saying you'll stop me?" Mitch asked, visibly angered.

"No, I have no reason to," Zeke replied.

"Then what? You're implying that I'm too weak to do anything?" Mitch's temper continued rising.

"Not that either." Zeke cleared his throat. "It's just, the person who killed your sister is already dead."

Mitch's eyes widened. "Did you..." He paused. "Kill him?"

"Yeah," Zeke sighed. "For better or for worse."

"Then what else is there for me to do?" The man started crying. His shoulders shook as tears carved paths down his cheeks. "First, I lost my master, then my sister. What do I do!" he screamed, slamming his fists into the ground. Despair clung to him like a shroud, suffocating and relentless.

"I don't know." Zeke paused, his sad gaze wandering toward the ground. A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken grief.

"You continue living," Fredric remarked. "No matter what. You keep moving forward without looking back. This city does not have any sympathy for those living in the past."

"Funny," Mitch looked up. "Hey, can you help me with something?" he asked.

"Anything," Zeke replied in a trembling tone on the verge of cracking.

"Help me rescue my brother," the man muttered.

Immediately, Zeke's face took on a serious expression, his brows contorting into a frown. "Explain," he blurted out.

"After our master died, a certain group showed up looking for the money he owed. We knew nothing about this, so we told them to piss off. Even now, I don't know if the debt was real or not. However, they showed up at our doorstep a month ago, capturing my brother and stating that they will collect the debt by selling his organs if I don't pay them back in a month," Mitch explained.

"And how long ago was that?" Zeke asked.

"Three weeks," Mitch answered.

"So we still have a week," Fox retorted.

"Let's go now!" Zeke gripped his mask. "So, how do we find these guys?"

"Actually, your two goons over there are their underlings," Mitch explained, pointing toward Mohawk and Bun.

"Oh really," Fox smiled under his mask. "Are these the dangerous people you told us about?"

"Yes," Bun and Mohawk sighed in unison.

"So, tell me, where can we find these people?" Zeke asked, turning his head.

"I-in a nightclub," Bun retorted.

"Nightclub," Zeke paused. "This is gonna be a long night."

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