Tseng's hands close over Rude's shoulders, slowly turning him. Just behind him, there is a battered old warehouse sitting at a left-leaning cant. It barely looks stable enough to provide shelter from the rain, but Tseng knows it for what it is: one of the most popular underground fighting rings this side of the continent. Behind its dilapidated façade is a reasonably well-constructed stadium with bleachers that stretch all the way up to the ceilings, a glittering ring sat in pride of place that must have cost millions in gil to establish. Outside, there are no markings to give it away, no signage, no evidence of any life but for the well-worn path leading up to it.

"Right here," he says. His hands slide away just as quickly, and he takes a step forward, joining Rude at his right-hand side. "Color me surprised that you've never heard of this place."

After all, this is what Rude does, isn't it? He knows all those exciting muscles and dazzling moves were tempered just for places like these, but it's been awhile, he supposes. Oh well. What a grand re-entrance for his quietest Turk.