The round continued. The bell hadn't saved either of them, it only reminded the world how close this war was.
Max sat on his stool, breathing heavy but sharp. Sweat coated his face, and the marks across his ribs were starting to darken.
Across the cage, Pedro leaned forward on his own stool, elbows on his knees, eyes locked across the mat.
Damon stood over Max, holding the water bottle but not speaking just yet. His eyes stayed on Pedro for a moment longer. He was impressed.
The kid had more composure than expected, and while Max had done enough to stay in it, Damon knew the tide could shift with the smallest slip.
"He's sharper than I thought," Damon admitted to the assistant beside him before turning back to Max. "You're lucky he doesn't know how to wrestle. That scramble? He should've taken your back. You're giving up too much trying to figure it out mid-fight."
Max nodded, wiping his face, still catching his breath.
