"Break!"
The referee's voice sliced through the chaos. Kevin stumbled backward from the brutal uppercut, his guard shattered, feet dancing like a drunkard struggling to regain balance.
His eyes held that glassy look Marcus recognized all too well—the moment when the brain finally registers the damage.
Without hesitation, Ahmed pressed forward, hooks already loading. The rhythm had shifted completely; the brawler sensed blood, and the technician's perfect balance lay in ruins.
Kevin clinched instinctively, grabbing Ahmed's shoulders like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Ahmed twisted, trying to free his hands, but the referee stepped between them.
Marcus watched from his corner, breathing shallowly. Tension coiled in his jaw, not in his fists.
"He's got to reset," Marcus thought. "He needs to find his distance again."
──── SYSTEM SNAPSHOT ────
Slip-Counter Efficiency: 83%
Strike Chain: 3-Hit Flurry
Tempo Shift Detected
──────────────────────
The boys separated, and the dance continued. Kevin tried to reestablish distance, but something had shifted. His jab came out slower, and his footwork felt heavier.
Ahmed had gotten into his head with that uppercut.
But Ahmed didn't rush. That was the frightening part. He had learned patience. With shorter steps and tighter movements, he dug body shots under Kevin's guard like a pickaxe chipping away at stone.
Each punch drove a little deeper, each step forward making the ring feel smaller.
By the end of round two, Kevin was still standing, but that was about all he had left. Bruises bloomed across his ribs, and sweat soaked through his gear. His chest rose and fell as if he had just run a marathon.
Ahmed walked back to his corner with calm confidence. No celebration, no showboating—just the quiet satisfaction of a job half-finished.
The gym buzzed with nervous energy. Some kids cheered, while others shook their heads. Coach Ruud leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as stone. Matteo scribbled notes on his clipboard.
Marcus sat perfectly still, his fingers twitching as if he were shadow-boxing in his mind.
"It's not power that's killing him," he muttered. "It's the rhythm."
Round three opened with Kevin trying to reclaim his game. His jabs were slower but still smart. He landed a clean shot straight down the middle that snapped Ahmed's head back.
The crowd cheered briefly. Hope flickered.
But Ahmed walked through it.
He absorbed the punch and kept coming forward as if it were raining on his shoulders. By mid-round, he had Kevin cornered again, digging hooks into his body with mechanical precision.
Kevin clinched, slipped out, and found space for half a second to land a beautiful cross on Ahmed's jaw.
A moment of defiance.
Kevin wasn't done yet.
But Ahmed just shook his head and kept advancing.
The last thirty seconds turned into pure war. Both boys were running on fumes and stubborn pride. Ahmed was still hunting, while Kevin tried to score clean points from the outside.
They traded shots in the center of the ring—clean technique against wild pressure, speed against raw determination. Neither was willing to give ground.
No dominance now, just two kids who refused to quit.
The final bell rang like a mercy shot.
The gym exhaled as one. Kevin leaned on the ropes, chest heaving. Ahmed stood in the center, hands at his sides, breathing like a machine.
Both their chests rose and fell like ocean waves.
The referee called them to the center of the ring. Their gloves touched, and sweat dripped onto the canvas between them. The room fell silent as Coach Ruud stepped forward with the scorecard.
"By split decision—Ahmed Hassan."
No wild cheers, just the tension breaking like a snapped wire.
Kevin nodded, barely disappointed. He knew he had given everything he had. Ahmed didn't gloat or celebrate; he simply walked back to his corner, eyes already focused on what came next.
The gym's energy shifted. Some kids whispered, while others remained quiet. Each was lost in thoughts of their upcoming fights, contemplating what it meant to step into that ring and discover what they were truly made of.
Marcus stood as Ahmed climbed down from the ring.
He didn't clap or cheer; he just watched.
His jaw was tight—not from being impressed, but because he knew that fight could have gone either way on a different night.
Ahmed hadn't overpowered Kevin; he had just stayed on him, never letting him breathe or find space to think or reset.
"Kevin had the cleaner hits," Marcus thought. "But it didn't matter. The other guy never stopped walking him down."
That was the lesson hiding in plain sight. The technique was beautiful, and the precision was admirable.
But pressure was what broke fighters.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes shifting to the bracket board with the remaining matchups. His turn was drawing closer with each passing minute.
"That's one fight. Six to go."
The system logged its final analysis quietly in the background.
──── FIGHT SUMMARY LOGGED ────
Ahmed Hassan – Winner
Control: 57%
Strike Accuracy: 43%
Dominant Style Detected: Pressure Brawler
Kevin de Vries – Runner-Up
Effective Rounds: 1.3
Adaptability: High | Power: Moderate
──────────────────────
A small notification flickered at the edge of his vision:
Box: You can now tap on analysis to watch the fight and practice against each fighter's style.
Marcus ignored it. He had everything he needed from watching the real thing, and the system could keep its simulations.
Reality taught better lessons.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, feeling the weight of anticipation. His match was drawing closer. Soon, he would be the one stepping through those ropes, and he would discover if all the training, preparation, and second chances meant anything.
"I'm next."
Marcus turned toward the locker room, his mind already shifting to his own fight. He thought of Elroy Adams and his dirty tactics, determined to prove that this timeline would differ.
Just then, the locker room door swung open.
Coach Ruud stepped inside.