The second morning alarm hadn't gone off yet when a strange sound took over the male prison wing.
— "OOOOOH!" someone shouted, followed by a chorus of screams, whistles, and metallic banging.
Thiago was the first to sit up on the bunk, still drowsy. Alexandre was already on his feet, frowning. Oliver rubbed his eyes, looking lost.
— "What's going on now?" murmured Thiago as he got up.
They left the cell cautiously, blending into the stream of prisoners crowding toward the center of the wing. Cheers, the sound of punches, and the clinking of coins filled the air. In the middle of the yard, an improvised ring made of dirty ropes and bits of rebar had been set up. Inside, two inmates were beating each other like animals, both covered in blood and swelling.
In the background, guards watched… doing nothing. One of them was even chewing gum, bored.
— "Is this for real?" asked Alexandre.
Oliver pointed to the side of the ring. There he was: General Jota, wearing only a denim vest open at the chest, eating popcorn like he was at the movies.
— "It can only be Jota's doing."
They approached. The crowd's cheers drowned out any regular conversation. One of the fighters dropped to his knees, and the other raised his fists, victorious, while coins were tossed over the makeshift fence.
— "Jota!" Thiago called out. "What the hell is this?"
Jota slowly turned his face without stopping chewing. A crooked smile on his lips.
— "Ah, you guys are up early today, huh?"
— "What's going on here?" asked Oliver, looking around, still trying to understand how the guards allowed this.
— "We call it Cockfight," Jota replied with pride. "Every week, when the tension gets too high, we organize a few rounds. The guards let it happen. Sometimes they even bet." He tossed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and pointed to the ring. "Sometimes the bet is cigarettes, sometimes favors. Today it's money."
— "And... no one dies?" asked Alexandre, tense.
— "Sometimes they do," Jota replied with a shrug. "But that's part of it."
He then turned to the trio, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and strategy.
— "By the way, you guys are newbies… Maybe you could compete. I've got a good feeling about the blond one there," he said, pointing at Oliver, who immediately stepped back.
— "You're kidding," muttered Oliver.
Jota laughed out loud.
— "Relax. It's not just about violence. Some fight for respect, for influence… or for a chance to bargain with the people that matter. Besides, since I can't fight — might get a bit too, explosive… that doesn't stop me from helping you guys out…"
Alexandre and Thiago exchanged glances. It was the first time they saw a real crack in MOTHRA's oppressive control. Even if it was a crack stained with blood.
— "Think about it," Jota said, forcing a cutesy tone. "Everybody watches. And whoever wins here, earns a name."
The crowd's chant grew louder once again. A new fight was about to begin. And the trio knew that, whether they liked it or not, they were now deeper into the system than they had ever been.
The crowd roared, demanding more blood. The screams drowned out even the metallic sounds of the prison. A prisoner was wiping the ring with a filthy rag while the "organizer" of the fight — a shaved-headed guy with a manic grin — took notes of the next contenders on a piece of cardboard using charcoal.
— "You joining or just watching?" he asked the group, spitting on the ground. "There's a spot open for the next round."
Thiago and Alexandre hesitated. But Oliver stepped forward, swallowing hard.
— "I'll go."
The organizer raised an eyebrow, surprised, then gave a wicked smile.
— "You? Scrawny like that? This'll be fun."
Before Oliver could respond, Jv yanked him by the arm and dragged him to a quieter corner.
— "Listen here, blondie," Jv said in a serious tone, opening his denim vest.
From an inner pocket, he discreetly pulled out an old, stained brass knuckle — solid as a rock. It was wrapped in a strip of cloth to disguise the metal.
— "Is this allowed?" Oliver whispered.
— "Of course not," Jv replied. "But you think the others go in clean? No one plays fair here, so don't even try. Hide this well and only use it when it's time to finish."
Oliver took the brass knuckle with trembling hands and slipped it inside his sleeve, hiding it beneath his elbow. Jv gave him two pats on the shoulder.
— "Don't try to be a hero. Just try to walk out."
A few minutes later, Oliver's name was shouted across the wing.
— "FRESH MEAT!" the organizer yelled. "OLIVER VS... CHUBBY FROM BLOCK C!"
A short, stocky guy with a scar on his chin and a moth tattoo on his back climbed into the ring, slapping his belly with force.
Oliver climbed in hesitantly, the stares of the prisoners burning into his back.
The crowd exploded.
— "NO BITING!" — "CRUSH THE NEWBIE!" — "COME ON, CHUBBY, BEAT HIM SENSELESS!"
The improvised referee — a prisoner in a white shirt soaked with dried blood — raised his arm.
— "Begin."
And chaos began.
The fight started with a brutal charge. Chubby from Block C had more strength than he looked. He landed two punches on Oliver's chest, slamming him back into the ropes of the ring.
— "ALREADY FALLING?" yelled a prisoner from the crowd.
Oliver staggered, air knocked from his lungs. But then he remembered what Jv had said. With a quick move, he reached under his shirt and slipped the brass knuckles onto his fingers.
Chubby's next move came sloppy — a grab attempt. It was the perfect opening.
CLACK.
The brass knuckles smashed into the opponent's jaw with a sound like breaking bone. Chubby dropped to his knees, eyes glazing over. Oliver didn't hesitate. He landed another blow to the temple. The body collapsed sideways, unconscious.
The crowd exploded. Screams, whistles, banging on pipes. But the celebration didn't last long.
THUMP THUMP THUMP — heavy steps echoed through the wing.
An armed guard appeared by the side of the ring, his face hidden under a black helmet and a vest with the MOTHRA logo. He carried a stun baton. Without saying a word, he climbed into the ring.
The organizer hesitated but didn't dare stop him. The crowd fell silent, tense.
Oliver looked around, nervous.
— "This… this isn't part of the fight, right?" he murmured.
The guard lunged without warning, spinning the baton like he knew exactly what he was doing. Oliver backed away, fear written all over his face.
That's when a rock flew through the air and hit the guard square in the head.
— "NOW, BLONDIE!" Jv yelled from the crowd, laughing.
Oliver saw the opening. He pulled his arm back and launched a punch at the jaw with all the strength he had left.
CRACK.
The impact was muffled, but the guard dropped like a sack of sand, the baton rolling across the floor. The crowd erupted again — now in pure frenzy.
— "OLIVER! OLIVER! OLIVER!"
Panting, his body trembling with adrenaline and fear, Oliver left the ring in the pause between fights. His ears throbbed with the rush of blood.
Jv met him with a wide smile and a slap on the shoulder.
— "Told you you could handle it."
Thiago and Alexandre came closer, shocked.
— "You knocked out a guard…" murmured Alexandre.
Oliver took a deep breath, still holding the brass knuckles.
— "I didn't know I could do that…"
Jv laughed loudly.
— "Well, now you do. And so does the whole prison."
The group moved away from the improvised arena, as two soldiers dragged the guard's body off. For the first time since they arrived, Oliver didn't feel weak.
For the first time, he felt dangerous.
The pause between fights was tense. Oliver was still catching his breath, sweating, his arms marked by the previous impacts. The ring was being hastily cleaned while bets were placed for the next round.
— "There's five more fights today…" Jv murmured, scratching his chin. "And the next one's special."
— "Special how?" Thiago asked, suspicious.
— "Like… resurrection special. MOTHRA's got some toys that aren't always prisoners. Sometimes they're… relics. I think you guys have figured that out by now…"
The sound of heavy boots echoed from the side corridor. The group turned just in time to see the next figure stepping into the ring: a thin man, with a sharp mustache and a piercing gaze, dressed in leather clothes typical of the Brazilian backlands. A folded-brim hat, bandoliers across his chest, and an expression that blended sarcasm with madness.
— "No way…" Alexandre whispered. "Is that…?"
— "That's him," Jv said with a smug grin. "Lampião."
— "Virgulino Ferreira da Silva?!"
— "Resurrected, rebuilt, and with powers you don't wanna find out the hard way."
Oliver swallowed hard, but had no choice. He was shoved back into the ring, still dazed.
The fight had barely started when Lampião let out a guttural scream and, with a swift motion, tore his own head off. The crowd screamed in shock and excitement.
— "OXENTE, BOY!" Lampião shouted sarcastically, mockingly.
The head spun in the air like a cursed projectile, hitting Oliver in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Before he could react, the decapitated body of the cangaceiro advanced with an improvised machete, slamming it into the ground beside Oliver.
It was too fast. Oliver was thrown out of the ring, his body rolling, unconscious.
— "ANYONE ELSE?" the organizer shouted, laughing at the brutality.
Thiago clenched his fists.
— "Leave it to me."
He climbed into the ring with firm steps, facing the body of Lampião, who now held his own head in one hand like a trophy.
— "You know how to dance, cangaceiro?" Thiago taunted, lowering his stance slowly.
Lampião responded by spinning his head through the air again. But Thiago was ready.
With a swift capoeira move, he dodged the projectile and spun on the ground, kicking the opponent's legs. Lampião's body fell, the head rolling away.
Thiago didn't waste time: he spun again and, with a meia-lua de compasso kick, launched the head back at the body, disorienting it. Before the cangaceiro could recover, Thiago climbed onto his back, grabbed the hat, and smashed the head into the floor of the ring.
Silence.
Then, the crowd erupted.
— "GO, CAPOEIRA!" they shouted.
Lampião collapsed, completely out cold. The organizer whistled and signaled the end of the fight.
Thiago jumped out of the ring and ran back to the group, panting.
— "That one… he's not going back to the sertão anytime soon."
Jv welcomed him with a handshake and a grin.
— "MOTHRA plays with the dead. But you handled it. Three more to go."
Alexandre looked at the ring, tense.
— "If the second one was already a legend, imagine what's coming next…"
The murmurs grew as the next figure stepped into the ring, heavy and calculated footsteps echoing through the makeshift arena. He wore a pristine suit, though old-fashioned, red boxing gloves, and a black top hat. When he removed it with elegance, the prisoners nearby could clearly see: a bullet hole in the back of his head.
— "Abraham Lincoln," Jv muttered with a crooked smile. "The liberator. Back in the ring."
— "These people are playing with history like it's just a game," Thiago said, rolling his shoulders before stepping into the ring again. "Alright. Let's see if he's got more than fancy words."
Lincoln gave a brief bow, maintaining a serious, stoic posture. Without warning, he charged forward with a series of jabs and crosses, his surprising size backed by absurd strength. Thiago tried to counter with a capoeira sweep, but Lincoln hopped over it and retaliated with an uppercut to the stomach, knocking the wind out of Thiago.
The crowd screamed. Thiago stumbled, tried to stay on his feet, but the next uppercut launched him out of the ring with brutal force. He landed near Oliver, who was still recovering from his earlier fight.
— "That Lincoln guy just abolished my liver…" Thiago groaned, coughing up blood.
Without hesitation, Alexandre stepped into the ring. He was the tallest of the group, and when he faced Lincoln, the two stood eye to eye with the same stature, the same resolve.
Lincoln struck first — clean, calculated blows. Alexandre, watching closely, began to mimic his movements. Steps, stance, rhythm.
He let Lincoln strike again, then responded with the exact same sequence — as if returning the opponent's code.
Jv murmured:
— "Is this guy… copying him?"
Lincoln hesitated for a moment — and that was all it took.
Alexandre used the pause to spin, faking a straight punch but landing a reverse hook that made Lincoln step back. Then, he followed with the same kind of jab he'd received earlier, followed by a left cross that hit Lincoln square in the jaw.
Lincoln staggered, tried to recover, but Alexandre was already winding up for the final punch — launching him flat on his back onto the ring floor.
Victory.
The crowd went wild. Alexandre extended a hand in silence, respectfully, and left the ring like nothing had happened.
— "Someone write this down," Jv muttered, impressed. "First Brazilian to knock out Abraham Lincoln."
Thiago, still sitting, clapped weakly.
— "Nicely done, big guy…"
Oliver chuckled, coughing:
— "Who's next? Jesus Christ with a crown of thorns?"
Jv laughed and replied:
— "Who knows, man. In MOTHRA, even God might be a prisoner."
The crowd was ecstatic when the loudspeaker system let out a metallic screech and static. The ring trembled slightly under the sound of heavy metallic footsteps echoing down the side corridor.
Then he appeared.
Zé Gambiarra. ANM-014.
An enormous figure, standing at 2.18 meters tall, dark-skinned, his body scarred and burnt, curly hair tied in a loose bun, a thick beard, and deep-set eyes glowing with an artificial light. He wore only a blue mechanic's jumpsuit; both his arms and legs had been fully replaced with metal prosthetics, and each step made the floor vibrate. In the center of his chest, visible through the open jumpsuit, pulsed what looked like a miniature nuclear reactor—a core emitting a constant blue glow.
— "Ladies and gentlemen," the organizer shouted mockingly, "straight from the workshop of hell… Zé Gambiarra, the Iron Hillbilly!"
The crowd roared as Alexandre stepped back into the ring, still panting and soaked in sweat from the previous fight. He stared at the mechanical monster ahead and clenched his fists.
Zé Gambiarra raised his metal arms and clashed his fists together. A wave of invisible radiation rippled through the air, causing some nearby inmates to cough or stagger with nausea.
— "He's... gonna kill Alexandre," Thiago muttered with concern.
The improvised referee shouted:
— "FIGHT!"
014 charged like a runaway train, his steel feet digging into the ground. Alexandre tried to dodge but was grazed by a punch, sent skidding across the ring and barely managing to catch himself with one hand. The air quaked from the force of the hit.
He staggered up and struck back with a flurry of blows to 014's torso, but his fists only pounded against cold metal. Zé Gambiarra laughed, voice deep and metallic:
— "Gonna have to hit harder than that, compadre..."
The cyborg grabbed him by the neck, lifted him, and slammed him to the floor in a brutal wrestling move, cracking the wooden planks beneath them. Alexandre coughed up blood but dragged himself back up, eyes blazing with fury.
He waited for the next attack.
Zé lunged again with a devastating punch. Alexandre dodged, twisted his body, and landed a sidekick to the metal joint of the cyborg's knee—it groaned under the impact. Without a pause, Alexandre leapt on him, landing a brutal series of punches to the part-human, part-reinforced face.
Blue flames hissed out from the gears in 014's arms as he tried to recover, but Alexandre, wild with rage, shoved him back down, locking his shoulders with his legs and hammering at the reactor core in his chest.
The crowd screamed. Guards were on alert. Even Jv had stopped eating popcorn.
Zé Gambiarra let out one last growl, raised his fist for a final blow—but Alexandre blocked it, twisted, and landed a clean knee to the jaw.
Silence.
The Iron Hillbilly fell sideways. Unconscious.
Alexandre dropped to his knees moments later, drenched in sweat, breathing like a bull on the brink of collapse.
— "That's insane..." Thiago whispered, stunned.
— "He beat a goddamn machine," said Oliver, jaw hanging.
Jv just smiled, silently proud.
The final match was coming. And after that… maybe, an opportunity.
The ring still trembled from the echoes of the previous fight. Alexandre had been helped off by Oliver and Thiago, his muscles exhausted, knuckles bloodied. But before any words could be exchanged, the organizer returned to the center of the ring—this time, without the enthusiasm of earlier matches. His voice was lower now. Tenser.
— "Ladies... and gentlemen... it's time for the final fight. Please welcome… the terror of the prison zone, the undefeated… Lee Ray!"
The entire floor shook as the iron gate at the back creaked open, revealing a grotesque colossus. Lee Ray stood about 2.4 meters tall, a monstrous mass of flesh and fat. Obese, with pale skin covered in scalpel marks and injection scars. He wore no shirt—just a shredded MOTHRA-issued pair of pants that barely held together on his deformed frame.
But the worst was on his back.
Grafted onto him like a living curse was a parasitic twin—a grotesque, inhuman face with sunken eyes, stretched skin, and a mouth that moved subtly. The creature writhed and whispered in his ear like a demonic parasite.
Silence fell over the arena.
— "No way," Alexandre murmured, still gasping.
Jv stood up calmly, wiped his hands on his pants, and cracked his neck.
— "Leave this one to me."
Before they could question him, he was already climbing into the ring. Even the guards watching from afar quietly stepped back.
— "They know," Thiago murmured. "They know this... isn't going to be a normal fight."
Lee Ray spat on the floor as the face on his back cackled maniacally, drooling and chanting:
— "Tear him up... tear him up... tear him up…"
The fight began.
Jv advanced with surgical precision—lightning-quick martial strikes, hitting key pressure points in the abdomen and knees of the giant. Every punch, kick, and elbow was perfectly timed, but Lee Ray didn't fall. He only roared in fury, trying to grab Jv with arms thick as tree trunks.
Jv retreated and activated a system in his gloves. With a crackling spark, he discharged high-voltage pulses directly into Lee Ray's nerves. The giant shuddered—but the face on his back began to hum a low tune, as if soothing or healing him.
— "Shock's not enough," Oliver muttered. "This is sick."
Jv backed off for a moment, pulling something from his coat's inner pocket—a small detonator. As the monster charged like a bull, Jv discreetly pulled a wire connected to an explosive charge hidden under the ring. TNT he had planted hours earlier, in case he "ever needed it."
Lee Ray roared louder.
Everyone stepped back.
The ring groaned.
The face on his back screamed:
— "END HIM!"
Jv pressed the button.
A brutal explosion rocked the ring.
Smoke, flying wood, scorched tatami everywhere.
Lee Ray was blasted backward, crashing into one of the metal pillars of the arena.
The parasitic twin shrieked in panic—then went silent.
Total silence.
Jv stepped out of the smoke, coat scorched, striking a pose as if he'd just finished a magic trick.
The inmates were in shock.
Thiago was the first to move:
— "He… blew up the ring."
— "He won," said Oliver, barely believing it.
Jv stepped down, grabbed a glass of water, drank slowly, and looked at the three.
— "MOTHRA loves a good show. But sometimes, we gotta remind 'em… who the real godfather is."