He knew it. I saw it in the way he studied me—cataloging every injury, every tremor in my legs, every labored breath.
This one would be different. This one wouldn't go down easy.
He didn't rush in. Didn't charge or lunge or try to overwhelm me with speed or strength. He circled. Methodical. Patient. Waiting for me to make the first mistake.
The crowd's roar became a low murmur of anticipation. They could sense it too—this wasn't going to be quick. This was going to be a dismantling.
I moved first. Had to. Couldn't let him control the pace. I came in fast, threw a combination—jab, cross, hook—putting everything I had left into the strikes.
He blocked the first two. Slipped the third.
His counter came so fast I barely saw it. His fist caught me in the jaw and my head snapped back, stars exploding across my vision. I stumbled, my legs nearly giving out.
I tasted blood. Spat it out. Tried to circle but my body wasn't responding right.
He pressed forward. Not rushing. Just advancing with the confidence of someone who knew the fight was already over.
His next strike caught my ribs—the broken ones—and something cracked further. The pain whited out my vision completely. I gasped, couldn't breathe.
My knees buckled.
He swept my legs out from under me and I went down hard. The impact drove what little air I had left from my lungs. He was on me before I could recover, his knee driving into my chest, his hands reaching for my throat.
The crowd roared.
I caught his wrists. Barely. My hands were slick with blood and his strength was overwhelming. He pressed down, his weight crushing my already-broken ribs, his fingers inching closer to my windpipe.
I bucked. Twisted. Tried to throw him off but he rode the movement like he'd done this a thousand times before. Stayed on top. Kept the pressure.
His fingers found my throat.
Squeezed.
The world started to gray at the edges. My lungs screamed for air that wouldn't come. I heard the crowd—a distant roar—and beneath it, my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.
Then a sound, so faint I almost didn't hear it. A female voice, screaming at me to fight.
The sound cut through the oxygen deprivation like a blade.
I couldn't see the cage from this angle. Couldn't see her face. But I knew it was her. Knew she was screaming at me to move, to fight. Watching the monster who would take her if I died here.
No.
I drove my thumb into the pressure point below his ear. Hard.
His grip loosened. Just for a second. Just enough.
I twisted, broke free, rolled away gasping. My throat felt crushed. Each breath was agony. But I was breathing.
I forced myself to my feet. Swayed. The world tilted and spun.
He was already standing. Not even winded. Just watching me with those dead eyes, waiting for me to fall.
We circled again.
My legs trembled with each step. My vision kept blurring at the edges. I couldn't feel my left arm anymore—just a distant numbness.
He came at me again. Methodical. Precise.
