I weave through the crowd, heading for the storage closet, but my eyes keep drifting toward the center. I catch glimpses between people's heads. A flash of movement. The smack of flesh on flesh. More screaming.
I should go straight to the closet. Stash my stuff. Get ready for the cleanup that'll come after. That's what I'm here for.
But my feet carry me closer to the Pit instead. I find a gap between two groups of spectators and finally get a clear view.
Danny's in the ring, shirtless, body gleaming with sweat under the harsh lights. His opponent—Riot, lean and covered in tattoos—is fast, bouncing on his toes, throwing combinations that would overwhelm most fighters.
But Danny's not most fighters.
He absorbs a hit to his ribs without flinching. Takes another to his shoulder. Testing. Waiting. Those dark eyes are completely focused, tracking every movement like he's solving an equation written in violence.
Riot dances back, resets. Blood's already streaming from his nose. He comes in again, faster this time, desperate to land something significant.
Danny moves.
One step forward. One punch.
The sound of the impact echoes even over the crowd. Riot's head snaps back and he stumbles, trying to recover. But Danny's already following through. Another punch. Another. Each one precise, devastating, unstoppable.
This isn't rage. This is something else entirely. Control. Purpose. Violence distilled into terrible art. I should look away. This is brutal. Vicious. Everything I should be horrified by.
But I can't stop watching Danny. The way he moves. The deadly grace of something so powerful being so perfectly controlled. He's not trying to hurt Riot. He's trying to end this. Quickly. Efficiently.
Almost mercifully.
Riot gets a second wind, lands a solid combination that would drop most men. Danny's head rocks back from a particularly hard right cross. The crowd gasps.
He doesn't go down.
Doesn't even step back.
He just... keeps coming.
"Jesus," someone next to me mutters. "He's a fucking machine."
The bell rings. End of round two.
Both fighters return to their corners. Danny's face is impassive. No celebration. No showboating. He drinks water, lets someone check a cut above his eye, then stands perfectly still. That same stillness I've seen before. Like he's conserving energy. Preparing.
I should move. Should get to work. But I'm rooted to the spot.
The bell rings for round three.
They meet in the center. Riot comes out aggressive, knowing he needs a knockout to win this. He's throwing everything he has—hooks, uppercuts, combinations that blur together. Some land. Most don't.
Danny weathers the storm.
Then he sees his opening.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. Riot overextends on a hook. Danny slips inside his guard, plants his feet, and throws an uppercut that starts somewhere near his knees.
The sound when it connects is sickening.
Riot's feet leave the ground. Actually leave the ground. He crashes back down onto the mat and doesn't move.
The ref rushes in, starts counting.
"ONE... TWO... THREE..."
