Promised to The Don
Long jagged lines that once ran from my shoulders down to my waist.
I covered them eventually after overcoming my fear of riddles of course.
The tattoo artist worked for nearly ten hours straight, weaving thick black ink over the damaged skin until the scars disappeared beneath the design of a massive spider spreading across my back. Its legs stretch outward over my shoulders, the body resting directly over my spine.
The bell rings and my opponent steps forward.
He is large, muscular, the type of fighter who relies on raw power rather than strategy. Normally I might enjoy testing him slowly, breaking him down piece by piece.