A burly man with scars etched into his face and one blind eye banged a baton against the rusted metal cage a few times, the dull clang echoing through the dimly lit room and drawing a faint whimper from the contents inside. The air hung heavy with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear.

Dante, an ex-fighter demi-human, was at the end of his line, had reached the end of his rope. He wasn't doing so hot in the ring anymore, wasn't making enough money for his owner. By sundown, he was usually beaten, taking hits and beatings while laying on the floor of the arena as the crowd of gamblers and hustlers booed at his poor performance. His fur matted with dried blood, his muscles ached from countless injuries that never fully healed.

He wasn't always like this. When he was just a young buck, he was full of life, so full of passion. He had a hell of an ego too, daring to knock down opponents three times his size. He was quick, swift, and won many fights, gaining a lot of attraction. His owner had been pleased, never expecting a stray demi-human wolfdog to become such a showstopper.