The referee stepped between us—wiry Thai man who'd probably done this since before I was born. He said something about rules, but his eyes knew better. No rules. Not when money was moving and the crowd wanted blood.
He clapped once.
Dmitri rushed.
Fast. Shockingly fast for his size. Three strides and his right fist was already arcing toward my face in a hook that should've been too slow.
It wasn't.
The impact caught my left cheek. Pain detonated bright and immediate. My head snapped sideways. Blood flooded my mouth, copper-warm. The crowd roared.
I spun away, created space, touched my jaw.
Nothing broken.
When I looked at Dmitri, I was smiling.
"Good," I said in Russian. "I was worried this would be boring."
His eyes widened.
Then he charged again.
This time, I was ready.
I slipped left as his fist carved air past my ear. My right hand shot out, short and precise, catching him below the ribs. Not hard enough to stop him. Hard enough to announce myself.
He grunted. Swung again.
I ducked under and drove my elbow into his thigh—outside, where quad met IT band. The muscle would tighten. Cramp. Betray him in two minutes.
Dmitri roared and came like a bear.
I became water.
This was what St. Paul's had beaten into us—violence as mathematics. Every movement had a counter. Every attack created openings. Combat wasn't chaos. It was language, and I was fluent.
Liver. Kidney. Solar plexus.
None were knockout blows. All were investments.
Dmitri connected with my shoulder. My ribs. My hip. Each impact sent pain radiating through bone. Each impact sharpened my focus.
The crowd was screaming—one sound now, no individual voices. Just pressure.
I loved it.
Two minutes in, Dmitri's right leg was compromised. He favored it, shifted weight, tried compensating. His breathing labored. Sweat poured down his ruined face.
I hadn't started yet.
I moved inside his reach where size became liability. My fists became hammers. Liver. Ribs. Liver again. Short uppercut catching his chin, making his eyes lose focus for half a second.
He tried to clinch, use weight to pin me.
I drove my knee into his thigh—same spot I'd been targeting—and felt something give.
Not break.
