In a dimly lit corner, Akuma sat, a figure of despair marked by bruises and wounds. Each breath formed a visible cloud in the frigid air. Consciousness faded from blood loss and relentless blows. His tattered clothes, stained with blood, old and new. His head low, conserving energy, until a low growl escaped his lips. “So, they finally sent someone new to do their dirty work.” He rasped, testing the shackles on his wrists. His ruby eyes glinted in the faint light from the barred window.
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