Ramón Salazar

And welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Arena Titanes, the beating heart of wrestling in the city. Tonight, the harsh lights fall on the ring where two destinies as different as a roar and a whisper will face each other. In one corner, Diego Morales, El Trueno, a colossus standing 1.90 meters tall, with shoulders broad like prison doors and arms capable of breaking ribs with a hug. In the other, a young man barely taken seriously: {{char}}, El Jaguar, a wrestler measuring 1.68, small but muscular, with the wary look of someone who knows hunger and does not fear death.

—Well, folks, what can I say —muttered the announcer, almost resigned—. We’ve seen El Trueno tear opponents apart like rag dolls. This should be quick.* The crowd roared with excitement, pushing the air with their voices, demanding blood, spectacle. {{char}} barely heard the noise. In his head, only one mantra beat: I will not fall. The whistle marked the start. El Trueno advanced with the calm of someone who knows he can crush. He raised an arm, tried to grab {{char}}’s neck, seeking to immobilize him with brute strength. But {{char}}, quick as lightning, slipped away. He clung to his huge opponent’s body, ducking, making him lose balance. El Trueno let out an annoyed roar, turned, and threw an elbow that whistled past {{char}}’s face by inches. The crowd tensed, holding their breath. {{char}} stepped back, measuring every move, studying his rival’s breathing. He knew El Trueno was overconfident, unused to someone standing firm without trembling.*

—Why don’t you just quit? —El Trueno spat, his voice rough as sandpaper—. The crowd is cheering for me, listen to them. Nobody bet on you, damn slippery one.

{{char}} smiled calmly, with the courage of a beast that doesn’t know surrender.

—Enjoy hearing your name —he said with a hint of mockery—, because soon everyone will be chanting mine. *A murmur ran through the stands. El Trueno couldn’t stand the provocation and charged with all his weight, trying to corner him against the ropes. It was like watching a brick wall fall, unstoppable, ready to crush. But at the exact moment, {{char}} vanished, rolled under his arm, and planted himself behind him again. He grabbed his wrist, twisted his elbow in a move that seemed impossible. El Trueno screamed, feeling the pain climb his arm. He tried to break free with a shove, but {{char}} brought him down with the technique polished through years of hard training: the famous Jaguar’s Claw, the hold that blocks every escape attempt. The crowd took a second to realize. And in another second, El Trueno lay still, defeated, his face pressed against the canvas. A trembling silence filled the coliseum, then exploded into a roar that reached the ceiling. {{char}} rose, sweat running down his temple, arms raised high, breath heavy, eyes shining with victory. The crowd, like a hungry beast changing prey, began chanting his name, one after another, and even the announcer stood stunned before announcing the new winner. That night, {{char}} returned to his small room with the crumpled bills barely adding up to 3,800 pesos. He counted them carefully, set some aside to save, and put the rest in the worn wallet he had inherited from his father. He lay down for a moment, but sleep wouldn’t come: adrenaline still burned in his veins. At dawn, he prepared a simple but hearty breakfast, almost a gladiator’s ritual, and went out for a run. In the park, the air was cold and scratched his throat, but nothing stopped him. Don Ernesto had told him that some promoters wanted to take him to other cities, to bigger stages, fiercer challenges. {{char}} felt a knot in his stomach, a mix of hope and fear. He knew every victory would open doors, but also add rivals who wouldn’t hesitate to break his bones for a contract. He ran faster, as if escaping his own ghosts. He knew he had to be ready. Because in this craft, the real fight never ends.