For a brief moment, Keke genuinely wondered if the sunglasses Stephen held were even his. His brain rejected the possibility outright. Maybe they were just a prop, something to distract him, trick him into lowering his guard.
But when Keke lifted both hands to touch his face, his fingertips met bare skin.
No frames.
No lenses.
Nothing.
They were gone.
He looked down at the floor, half expecting the glasses to have slipped off during one of his spinning kicks. But there was nothing there either.
"Come on," Stephen said casually, flicking the sunglasses in his hand. "Do you really think anyone else is stupid enough to wear sunglasses at night during a fight?"
His tone was dry, teasing, but there was a sharpness underneath. The comment alone shouldn’t have stung, but it did.
Stephen himself could think of one exception.
Chad.
The idiot wore sunglasses at nearly every event. Maybe that was why Keke irritated him so much; he was a living reminder of the sort of nonsense Stephen thought he had escaped.
Keke didn’t respond. He didn’t taunt. He didn’t shout back.
He just stood there, mind racing.
’That’s impossible... If he really took the sunglasses off my face, his hand would’ve had to reach out, come inches from me, and I didn’t see even a blur. Not a shadow. Nothing.’
A cold shiver slithered down his spine.
If Stephen could remove his glasses without him noticing... then Stephen could have punched
And Keke wouldn’t have been able to react.
"It has to be some kind of trick," Keke whispered to himself. "A stage trick. Sleight of hand... something like that." His breathing grew shaky. "I see magic on TV all the time. Just because I don’t understand how it works doesn’t mean magic isn’t real!"
Desperate to restore his confidence, Keke threw himself back into the fight.
He attacked, fast, sharp, unpredictable.
But this time, every punch missed.
Every kick whiffed through empty space.
It wasn’t that Stephen was blocking, Stephen wasn’t even bothering. He simply avoided everything with small, controlled movements, as if he knew exactly where Keke would strike before the attacks even formed.
"Did you see that?" Jett asked, leaning forward.
"That movement, did you see it?"
"I did," Darius replied. The amusement was gone from his voice. His eyes sharpened so much that he finally set aside his whiskey.
"I thought you said he wasn’t someone we needed to worry about?"
"Well, I did say that," Jett answered, though his expression twisted. "Based on the old him. I didn’t expect... whatever this is. People his age don’t just improve. Not like this."
He clenched his jaw.
"Did they really improve this much? Impossible. Were they hiding something before? No, that can’t be it either. I saw the desperation in their eyes earlier. If they thought they had a chance to win, Stephen never would’ve paid me."
Jett turned his gaze toward the masked individual, Max.
He knew what Max actually looked like under the mask.
Now he wondered just what kind of training Max had forced Stephen through before the event. What kind of hell had sharpened the old man this far?
’And what about the guard?’ Jett wondered. ’If Stephen changed this much... did the guard change too? If so, this might not be as simple as we thought.’
Back in the ring, Keke was practically unraveling.
His strikes lost precision.
His rhythm deteriorated.
Every step he took was hesitant.
Stephen wasn’t just dodging, he was dismantling Keke’s confidence, second by second.
Then it happened.
A blur, so fast that most spectators didn’t even register the movement, shot forward.
Keke felt something smash into his face.
A pounding wave of pain exploded from his nose, radiating across his skull. His vision blurred instantly.
He staggered.
His arms dropped.
Before he could even breathe, another blow struck him in the stomach like a battering ram, nearly lifting him off the ground. His organs felt as if they shook inside him.
His mind was spinning.
His knees softened.
Through half-lidded eyes, he could barely register Stephen’s form moving again, already preparing the next strike.
A hook slammed into the side of his head.
Keke’s world went black before he even hit the canvas.
The spectators fell into complete silence.
It wasn’t just a victory.
It wasn’t just a knockout.
It was instantaneous domination , a reversal so abrupt and spectacular that no one fully understood what they had witnessed.
Stephen, who had been struggling earlier, who had been pushed back repeatedly, had suddenly ended the fight in under two seconds. It didn’t make sense. The shift was too drastic, too unbelievable.
"I won, right?" Stephen asked as if unsure, adjusting the sunglasses onto his face. "Guess I’ll keep these as a souvenir."
The casualness made it even more surreal.
He walked back toward Max and Darno with steady steps. He wasn’t limping. He wasn’t even winded. It was almost insulting how healthy he looked.
Darno immediately wrapped an arm around his neck in a half-hug, half-headlock, laughing loudly.
"Hahaha! That was great! Look at their faces! But old man, seriously, the sunglasses bit was cheesy as hell. You should throw them away before you embarrass yourself further!"
Stephen was grinning, unable to hide the pride swelling in his chest.
For months, he had been bitter about aging. About losing his edge. About being overshadowed by younger fighters.
But now?
He wasn’t just back.
He was stronger.
Faster.
Sharper.
"For an old man," Stephen said smugly, "I move pretty fast, right?"
Darno and Max both gave him looks of amused approval.
Even Jett, watching from where he was, couldn’t deny it.
Something about this man, and his group, was becoming far more dangerous than anyone had initially thought.
****
*****
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