[ It feels good, if not unfamiliar. The cold sheen carving through some of the haze lingering in his thoughts. Luckily he didn't get into anything that made him sweaty or gross, he's just — hot. Lighter picks up on it too, that this stranger with sick scars and a fat ass might be his prototype more similar to him than he would've expected at first blush. He eyes them with similar curiosity, mellow in the lay of his expression: those coarse knots of scar tissue all over his body. Likewise, a boxer's build.

Only the mention of bedding people for chips makes him shut his eyes and shake his head. In theory, it's not all that dissimilar from trading blood for Dennies, and yet... ]

No need. I only seriously get into the ring for money, nothing else. [ And given that they're stowing that convo, he does eventually make it upright with a groan, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and planting his feet on the floor. ] You know, I'm not much of a drinker nowadays...

[ Instinctively, he reaches up to his collar to find that the dogtags there are still missing, pausing soberly at that revelation. ]

So I couldn't even tell you what the wringer actually was.