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Chapter 12 - Chapter 12: Marcus vs. Elroy – Opening Round

"Good fight. You earned it."

Coach Ruud stepped into the locker room, nodding at Ahmed. The Egyptian kid was still catching his breath, a towel draped around his neck, but his eyes sparkled with quiet satisfaction.

Kevin sat on the back bench, chest heaving. Ruud turned to him next.

"You did well, too. It just wasn't your day. Keep showing up, and you'll get there."

No false comfort or empty promises—just an honest assessment delivered with surgical precision.

The remaining fighters tensed, suddenly finding reasons to check their wraps, adjust their gear, or look anywhere but at Ruud's calculating gaze.

"This isn't a war. It's a spar," he said, his voice resonating in the cramped space. "I don't want fear. I want you to make an effort. If you lose, learn from it. If you win, earn it."

His eyes locked on Marcus and Elroy.

"You two. You're up. Let's see what you've got."

He left without waiting for a response.

Silence followed, thick and heavy. Every fighter in the room tightened their wraps, suddenly aware of flaws that hadn't existed moments before.

Marcus laced his gloves slowly and methodically. Each wrap pulled tight, each finger flexed to test his range of motion. He wasted no energy on nerves.

Elroy cracked his neck once, twice, and grinned at nothing and everything.

"Hope your jaw's stronger than your stare," he muttered as he headed for the door.

Marcus remained silent, letting his gloves do the talking.

The announcer stepped into the ring, the mic crackling with feedback.

"Next up—Marcus Dorsey versus Elroy Veen. Keep it clean, touch gloves, and always protect yourselves."

The gym noise faded to a low buzz. This was it. All the training, all the system missions, and preparation came down to the next few minutes.

Marcus stepped through the ropes quietly. There was no showboating or trash talk, just a professional focus wrapped in youthful determination.

Elroy bounced on his feet, flashing that same predatory grin. He was shorter than Marcus and heavier-built, but his energy crackled with unpredictable voltage, the kind of fighter who thrived on chaos.

Their stances told different stories. Marcus crouched slightly, weight balanced, his peek-a-boo guard tight and controlled. Everything about him whispered discipline.

Elroy stood loose, hands low, shoulders rolling as if warming up for a street fight. His stance radiated aggression and bad intentions.

The ref called them to the center of the ring. They touched gloves—brief contact, no eye contact. A professional courtesy before the impending violence.

The bell rang.

Round one.

Marcus stayed behind his jab, circling left, measuring distance, and reading Elroy's rhythm. The system had taught him patience. His first life had taught him the cost of rushing.

Elroy closed the space quickly, throwing looping shots designed to test Marcus's guard. Wide hooks that looked sloppy but carried real power.

Marcus blocked most of them, absorbing the impacts on his forearms. He didn't respond immediately.

He was watching, learning, cataloging patterns.

Elroy's left hook dropped slightly when he threw the right. His feet narrowed when he pressed forward. Small tells that added up to exploitable weaknesses.

Mid-round, Marcus found his opening. Elroy overextended on a wild swing, exposing his chin for half a heartbeat.

Marcus stepped forward and fired a clean jab straight down the pipe.

The punch landed flush, snapping Elroy's head back and drawing a murmur from the watching crowd.

Elroy backed off, laughing.

"Cute."

But something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or respect.

Marcus didn't respond. He reset to his stance and kept working.

This time, Elroy came forward with a quick three-hit combination: jab, cross, hook. Fast and technical—more skilled than Marcus had expected.

Marcus used peek-a-boo slips to avoid the worst of it. His head movement looked effortless but took years to master. The kind of defense that made crowds murmur and older fighters glance over.

"Kid's got nice movement," someone whispered from the ringside.

Marcus heard it but didn't react. Compliments were dangerous. They made you think you were winning when you were surviving.

The round progressed with careful violence. Marcus landed clean, technical shots while Elroy pressed forward with controlled aggression. Both were testing, both learning.

Neither gave ground easily.

In the final thirty seconds, Elroy managed to push Marcus to the ropes with a series of body shots that forced him to retreat. The crowd noise picked up.

A quick hook to the ribs landed clean. Marcus grunted, doubling slightly. Elroy stepped in for the clinch.

The ref moved to break them apart—standard procedure.

But in that split second when their bodies tangled and the official's view was blocked, Elroy threw a short hook to the ribs, followed by an elbow.

The elbow caught Marcus on the chin as Elroy closed the gap.

Marcus jerked back—not dropped, but stunned. His head turned slightly from the impact that shouldn't have happened.

The ref didn't see it, too focused on separating the fighters.

"Break!"

They circled again. Ten seconds left in the round.

Marcus's vision cleared. His balance returned. But something had changed in his expression.

The bell rang.

Marcus walked to his corner, touching his chin where the elbow had landed. The skin was tender but not cut.

Elroy smirked as he sat on his stool.

A dirty fighter, just as Marcus had expected.

But knowing something was coming and experiencing it were two different things. The elbow had been subtle, professional—the kind of cheap shot that required experience to execute correctly.

Marcus looked across the ring at his opponent. Elroy was already focused on round two, bouncing slightly on his stool, eager for more violence.

His eyes narrowed.

His gloves lowered half an inch.

His voice inside was calm, not angry. Twenty-six years of professional experience speaking.

"Alright then."

If Elroy wanted to fight dirty, Marcus would show him what real dirty fighting looked like.

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