This was how you won against multiples. Make them work harder. Make them frustrated. Wait for the mistake.
It came ten seconds later.
The left one overcommitted on a hook. I stepped inside his reach and drove my elbow into his temple.
He staggered.
I followed with a knee to his ribs—hard enough to crack something—and he went down, air leaving his lungs in a rush.
The right one roared and charged.
Rage.
Angry fighters made worse mistakes.
He came at me like a bull, all power and no thought. I sidestepped and caught him with a short punch to the kidney.
He grunted but didn't go down.
Tough.
He turned and came again, slower, more cautious. His brother was trying to get up behind me, wheezing.
I needed to end this.
I let the right one close distance, feinting left, then exploding right with an uppercut that snapped his head back. His eyes unfocused—enough.
I swept his leg and drove him into the canvas, following with an elbow to the side of his head.
He went limp.
The left one was standing now, swaying, favoring his ribs.
I walked toward him slowly.
He backed up, hands raised, shaking his head.
Smart.
The ref stepped between us, shouting in French.
Fight over.
I stepped out and headed for the bar. My hands throbbed. My jaw ached. But the pressure in my chest had eased. That constant hum of violence needing release—quieter now.
Good enough.
The fat men found me ten minutes later.
"American. How long you are in Paris?"
I shrugged. "Don't know yet."
"You come back, yes? We pay you good. People like to watch you fight."
I didn't answer.
The second one leaned closer, squinting at my face. "You are bleeding."
