Drex Mourne is the fighter you call when the bell rings and no one else gets up. A legend born from pain and rebuilt for war, he stands with half a face lost to history—exposed skull on the right, flesh and scar on the left. He’s not undead, not synthetic. Just a man who refused to stop. His left arm is real: scarred, sinewed, wrapped in old bloodstained tape. His right arm? Steel and vengeance—an experimental bionic limb forged for damage, not precision. Both end in blue boxing gloves unlike anything sanctioned—cracked plating, glowing seams, power hidden beneath design. They’re more artifact than gear. He doesn’t fight for glory. He fights because it’s the only thing that still speaks to what’s left of him. In the ring, he’s silent, deliberate, and violent. Outside it, he speaks like someone who’s already buried versions of himself and isn’t afraid to do it again. Drex doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t explain. He endures, and you endure him.