The deafening roar of the audience felt like a physical weight pressing down on Joe. He stood in the center of the Pit, the flickering spotlights harsh on his skin, but the crowd’s energy was focused on something else, the blood.
Only hours ago, they had watched him, the ’weak-looking kid,’ walk away from his first match unscathed. The audience, a ravenous, cynical mob that lived for the thrill of the brawl, had kept a close, calculating track of him precisely because of his seemingly fragile appearance. Now, seeing him drenched in crimson, blood covering his shirt, smeared across his jaw, and clinging to his knuckles, it was all they could talk about.
"Did he get jumped or something? A revenge hit?" a voice shrieked, barely cutting through the din.
"Don’t be an idiot, look at his hands! The blood’s right on his fists, man. He must’ve been in a nasty fight with some other individuals just to get here," another retorted. The guesses were wild, the tension a live wire.
Joe didn’t hear them. The betting was officially closed, and the second the announcement faded, he’d dropped without a second of hesitation into the Pit. His gaze was locked on the person opposite him: Razor.
Razor, a fighter who had earned his name with slicing speed, stood there, grinning, a truly devilish smile cutting across his face below a defiant, blonde-colored mohawk. Joe knew this guy was fast, dangerously so, and had performed well in his own preliminary bout.
Up in the stands, the polished steel of the railing felt cold beneath Wolf’s fingers. His mind was racing, a silent, frantic analysis running on repeat.
’That’s my bad,’ he thought, his jaw tight as he watched Joe. ’I should have known. I should have known they might try something. I just honestly never expected them to move so early on in this stage. I would have suspected them to do something after this.’
Wolf quickly used his own logic and battlefield experience to connect the dots. It almost certainly had something to do with Chad. Chad had only bet on two people during the matches, Joe and Wolf, and in a high-stakes arena like this, that kind of singular focus was enough to set off every alarm bell in the back channels. They wanted to take out the assets, and they’d gone for the one they thought was easiest.
He watched Joe, covered in blood that wasn’t all his own, and a small, almost grim smile touched his lips. ’Well, if there is one person I wouldn’t have to worry about dying on me, that would have to be you, Joe, right?’
The opening bell shrieked, and the energy in the Pit exploded.
Razor, living up to his moniker, came rushing out like a blur, a whirlwind of speed and aggression. The first move was a wide, looping swing from the side. Joe’s head dipped, dodging the hit by mere inches, but before he could recenter, a second swing came slashing in from the opposite direction, a lightning-fast pendulum.
Joe lifted his arm instinctively, barely in time to block the attack. But the fist was thrown with such blinding velocity that it walloped the side of his head anyway. His entire neck whipped, a sickening, sharp snap, and a collective, sharp "Ooooh!" of imagined pain swept through the crowd.
Yet, Joe didn’t go down. He planted his feet, a sudden, immovable column, his solid foundation holding fast against the brutal impact.
He instantly tried to retaliate, snapping out a quick, punishing jab. It managed to just skim Razor’s cheek, drawing a thin line of sweat and possible blood.
"What a good jab you have!" Razor sneered, his tone dripping with mocking admiration. "Unfortunately for you, I was also a boxer!"
Razor then threw a perfect uppercut, and it dug deep, a gut-wrenching impact right into Joe’s stomach. Joe’s formidable endurance took the hit, his foundation remaining miraculously solid. He immediately returned fire, two rapid jabs to push Razor back. The punches were blocked, but the sheer force of the exchange was enough to stagger Razor momentarily.
’What is he doing?’
Joe held his stance, his hands pressed tight by his head exactly as he had been trained, but he was silent, unresponsive to his opponent’s taunts.
Razor, sensing the momentary pause, lunged back in. He started attacking from the side, a relentless barrage of hooks. Joe managed to weave and dodge, avoiding the worst of the headshots.
Then came the blows that sealed the strategy. Large, heavy hits landed right on the lower side of his body, clean, powerful impacts that drove the air from his lungs. Spectators didn’t know how Joe was even still standing, his torso absorbing sledgehammer blows.
"If you just keep your guard up all day, then I’ll just go for your body!" Razor yelled over the roar. "At some point, it will drop!"
Razor was true to his word, mixing in soft punches above to keep Joe distracted. But when he needed to, he ramped up the velocity, delivering brutal haymakers right into Joe’s stomach, blow after devastating blow. The attacks to the solar plexus and ribs were achieving their goal: they were stopping Joe from using his footwork, anchoring him in place.
"What is going on with him!" Chad shouted, slapping his palm against the railing in frustration. "He didn’t fight like this during the first fight! The guy is barely moving!"
Nearby, a sickening, triumphant laugh broke out.
Vivian.
"I was a little worried there for a second, Chad, but it doesn’t seem I have to be," she crowed. She figured it out: even if Joe had beaten up the men she sent after him and made it out, he couldn’t have escaped the situation without a scratch. He had to be injured in some way that was now affecting his speed and agility in this fight.
"How much did you bet on this match, fifteen million?" She smirked, her face alight with avarice. "It looks like the money we lost will soon come back after all."
At that moment, Joe’s guard finally dipped. It was only for a fraction of a second, a spasm of pain in his stomach, but it was all Razor needed. A heavy, bone-jarring fist slammed into his face, snapping his head backward.
He stumbled, taking a half-step back, but refused to fall. Blood, fresh and hot, began dripping from his nose again, mixing with the drying older stains.
Joe slowly lifted a hand, wiping the new blood away with the back of his glove. He looked up at Razor, his eyes flat and cold, and spoke only three words, his voice cutting through the blood-soaked haze and the receding din of the crowd.
"Was that meant to hurt?"