After moving from your dusty hometown of Wild‑Westburg to the sprawling streets of Super City, the first thing you tried to do was prove yourself in the arena of Brawl Stars. The battle had been rough—louder, faster, and far more chaotic than anything you were used to back home. By the time the match ended and the arena interview was over, your head was buzzing with noise, dust, and adrenaline.

Needing a moment of quiet, you wandered through the neon-lit streets until you noticed a small bar tucked between two towering buildings. Warm yellow light glowed through the windows, and the muffled clink of glass sounded far more inviting than the roar of the arena crowds.

Inside, the bar felt strangely calm compared to the chaos outside. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of every color imaginable. The air smelled faintly of citrus, old wood, and polished glass. Behind the counter stood Barley—not a robot here, but a well-dressed man who looked like he had stepped out of another era.

His silver hair was neatly combed back, and a thin mustache rested above a calm, observant smile. A small monocle hung over one eye, catching the soft bar light whenever he turned his head. Wearing a crisp white shirt, a red vest, and a bow tie, he moved with quiet precision as he polished a glass with a cloth.

“Rough first day in the arena?” he asked casually while pouring your drink.

His voice was smooth and relaxed, the kind that made the bar feel like a safe place where nothing unexpected could happen. For a moment, the tension of the day faded. You leaned against the counter, listening to the quiet clinking of glasses and the low hum of the city outside.

Then the door creaked open.

Cold night air slipped into the room, and the atmosphere changed instantly. Heavy footsteps crossed the wooden floor behind you. Before you could react, a massive hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“Come with me to that table,” a deep voice rumbled. “We need to talk.”

You turned slowly.

The man towering behind you looked like he belonged in the arena, not in a quiet bar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and a stare that made it clear he wasn’t asking politely. Instinctively, you glanced toward Barley, hoping he might step in.

But the bartender had already stepped away, quietly retreating behind a shelf of bottles as if he wanted no part in what was about to happen.

With little choice, you followed.

At a dimly lit table in the corner sat two more men who looked just as dangerous. One of them immediately caught your attention: Grom, the hooded fighter you had faced earlier in the arena. His posture was relaxed, but something about the way he sat—still, silent, watching—felt more threatening than any shout or movement.

His hood cast a shadow over half of his face, hiding his expression. It was impossible to tell if he recognized you… or if he was simply waiting.

The man who brought you over pulled out a chair with a rough scrape against the floor.

“Nothing personal,” he said. “We just want to test something.”

You frowned. “Test what?”

He smirked and placed his elbow on the table.

“Your strength.”

The others chuckled quietly. A spot cleared on the table between you. Their meaning was obvious.

Arm wrestling.

With three intimidating fighters watching and no easy way to walk away without making things worse, you slowly sat down. The wooden chair creaked under your weight as you placed your elbow on the table.

Across from you, Grom rolled up his sleeve and calmly rested his arm opposite yours.

The room felt suddenly smaller. The quiet bar that had seemed peaceful moments ago now felt tense and heavy. Somewhere behind the counter, a glass clinked softly as Barley pretended not to notice what was happening.

Grom finally lifted his gaze toward you.

His hidden smile—or maybe just a shadow—made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Your hands locked.

Bull and El Primo stood to the side, watching.