"Hey, Box… can you record and analyze this match?"
"Yes, I can do that if you want… Do you want me to analyze and record the match?"
"Box… record everything. Breakdown by style, tempo, and strike variation."
Marcus whispered the words so quietly they barely made a sound. The system chimed once in response—acknowledgment without fanfare.
The gym had transformed overnight.
Cold fluorescent lights hummed above the ring like angry wasps, and the air tasted different now—sharper, heavier with chalk dust and sweat that meant something more than training. Faint rap music leaked from someone's phone, but everything else had gone soft and careful.
This wasn't practice anymore; this was war.
Gloves hit pads with sounds that echoed off concrete walls, and conversations dropped to whispers. Even the veterans, who usually cracked jokes and told stories, stood silent against the walls, arms crossed, watching everything with the kind of attention you gave to car crashes.
Marcus sat on the corner bench, already changed and wrapped, his breath coming slow and controlled—meditation disguised as observation.
Kevin de Vries stepped through the ropes first.
He was a tall kid, maybe six-two, with a lean build that favored speed over power. Dutch-born and third generation, he fought like his grandfather had taught him, old-school European boxing. His orthodox stance exuded surgical precision, and his patience was carved from stone.
Kevin's internal voice carried across the gym in the way he moved—controlled, methodical, and confident in his game plan. He wanted to pick Ahmed apart from a distance, stay composed, and win cleanly and technically.
No brawling. No drama. Just textbook boxing executed to perfection.
Ahmed Hassan climbed in next.
Shorter by half a foot, he was built like a compressed spring, with Egyptian blood in his veins and fire in his chest. His tight guard and hunched shoulders signaled he was ready to bulldoze through whatever Kevin threw at him.
Ahmed bounced on his toes, throwing practice combinations that cut through the air with bad intentions—looping hooks to the body and head. He was the kind of fighter who believed wars were won by whoever wanted it more.
He was tired of being overlooked, tired of coaches talking about Kevin's "bright future" while treating Ahmed like mere sparring practice. Today, he was determined to force respect from everyone watching.
Today, he would make them remember his name.
── SYSTEM RECORDING INITIALIZED ──
Fight Analysis: Active
Tracking: Movement Patterns | Guard Type | Strike Cadence
─────────────────────
The display flickered at the edge of Marcus's vvision, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked on the ring, and he read both fighters like open books.
Kevin shadowboxed in his corner—jabs, straight crosses, everything thrown with textbook form. He established a long-range game, controlling distance and tempo, making Ahmed chase while picking him apart with precision strikes.
Ahmed rolled his shoulders and loosened his neck, a pressure fighter through and through. He aimed to get inside, make it ugly, and turn boxing into a street fight where technique mattered less than heart.
The bell rang.
Round one.
Kevin immediately took center ring, establishing distance with sharp jabs that snapped Ahmed's head back. Clean shots, perfectly timed, landing exactly where Kevin wanted them.
Ahmed absorbed the first two without blinking, ducked the third, and stepped forward to throw a heavy body hook that Kevin barely blocked.
The sound echoed through the gym like a gunshot.
"Smart start," someone whispered from the crowd.
Kevin reset, circled left, and kept his jab working—one-two combinations that scored points and built confidence. Ahmed pressed forward anyway, cutting off angles and making the ring smaller with every step.
Marcus watched without blinking. His system highlighted Kevin's foot positioning—textbook balance and weight distribution perfect for launching straight shots. Ahmed's shoulder roll counters appeared as faint traces in his peripheral vision.
But the data was just background noise. Marcus read the fight with instincts earned through years of pain.
Kevin was winning rounds, but Ahmed was winning the war.
Every exchange pushed Kevin closer to the ropes. Every minute made Ahmed more confident, more willing to absorb shots to land his own.
The pattern was clear to anyone who had been in enough fights.
"Kevin's too clean to win dirty," muttered one of the assistant coaches.
"Ahmed's gonna walk through him eventually," came the response.
At the end of round one, Kevin scored more, but Ahmed cornered him twice and landed two hooks, which made the crowd react. The Egyptian walked to his corner with the swagger of someone who knew time was on his side.
Kevin sat on his stool, breathing harder than he should have been.
Round two started with Ahmed coming forward like a freight train.
He feinted low, then unleashed an overhand right that crashed into Kevin's guard and drove him backward. The tall kid stumbled half a step before finding his balance.
Marcus narrowed his eyes.
Kevin's footwork was getting sloppy due to fatigue, pressure, or both. Ahmed sensed this immediately and pressed his advantage.
The pace picked up, and the crowd noise rose with it.
"Let's go, Hassan!"
"Keep that jab, Kev!"
"Body shots! Body shots!"
Ahmed now stalked Kevin around the ring, cutting off escape routes and turning boxing into phone booth fighting. Kevin tried to maintain distance, but the ring kept shrinking.
Desperation crept into Kevin's combinations. He threw shots too hard, too fast, with too much hope attached.
Ahmed slipped most of them, blocked the rest, and waited for his moment.
It came with thirty seconds left in the round.
Kevin threw a desperate counter left hand, putting everything behind it—the kind of punch that ended fights or careers.
Ahmed saw it coming from a mile away.
He slipped under the shot like water flowing around stone and devised a brutal left uppercut aimed straight at Kevin's chin.
Perfect timing. Perfect angle. Perfect execution.
Kevin's head snapped back, and his guard flew open like broken wings.
The crowd erupted.
Marcus leaned forward, the system forgotten, watching as Ahmed's follow-up combination loaded like bullets in a chamber.