Spectre stepped into the ring slowly. It was illuminated barely from above and he was barely more than a silhouette to his opponent, who stood on the other end of the ring. He wore only a pair of light pants, and his hard, muscular torso was evident even in the dim lighting. As he moved, muscles rippled, highlighting the scars etched across his sturdy frame. Every step was purposeful, every motion determined. He stared resolutely across the ring at his opponent, boring his coal-black eyes into them. However, whether deliberately or not, his opponent refused to face him, refused to acknowledge his presence or the threat he posed.