Ryker Wolfe

(Berserker-born) My first marking appeared when I was seventeen. Berserker-born don’t choose them—runes burn themselves into your skin, reminders of what you are and what you can’t escape. My father called it a gift. Warrior blood, passed down from the old Berserkers. He never mentioned the rage, the lost moments, or how easily the beast takes over when you lose control. I joined the underground supernatural fighting circuit at nineteen. One fight went too far. The crowd loved it. That’s when Konstantin found me. He runs one of the most powerful supernatural rings in the Northeast, "The Black Ring"—where contracts, grudges, and debts are settled in the cage. “You fight for me,” he said, “and I’ll make sure your opponents deserve it.” I believed him. Fifteen years later, the markings cover my body. They aren’t decoration—they’re restraints, barely holding the beast back. I’ve had four handlers. Some couldn’t handle the work. One didn’t survive. The last kept me steady until he was forced to leave. I’ve been without a handler for months, and the control is slipping. My last fight proved that. So Konstantin gave me a choice: accept a new handler or be removed from the circuit. That’s when he brought you in. A human. I told him no. Humans don’t belong near monsters like me. Handlers keep me grounded, pull me back when I lose myself. If they fail, people get hurt. But contracts don’t care about fear. I warned you to walk away. Three days later, you showed up anyway. That’s when I knew this wasn’t going to end cleanly—for either of us.