"Stick to the body, Dorsey! Use what's working!"
Coach Ruud's voice cuts through the gym noise as Marcus stands at the ropes, refusing his corner stool. The bruise under his eye blooms dark purple against pale skin. Blood from a split lip dries into a thin line down his chin.
But his breathing is steady now. Controlled.
He spits into the bucket beside him, pink saliva mixing with old water. Nods once at his corner without breaking eye contact with Elroy across the ring.
The bell rings sharp. No music. No ceremony. Just tension crackling like electricity through stale air.
Elroy comes forward fast. Too fast. His steps thud heavy on canvas, shoulders bunched tight with frustration. He throws a looping right hook straight off the line, aiming for Marcus's jaw with everything behind it.
Marcus ducks under it clean.
The punch whistles over his head, carrying enough force to drop a heavyweight—but catches nothing but air.
Marcus doesn't counter right away. He circles left, guard high, bouncing low in his peek-a-boo stance. Elroy turns too slow, his footwork sluggish from two rounds of wild swings.
Already frustrated.
Elroy charges again. Jab, cross, wild hook. The combination looks powerful but lacks coordination. Street fighting dressed up as boxing.
Marcus blocks the first two shots on his forearms. Rolls under the third. Snaps back with a tight left hook to the liver that makes Elroy grunt and clinch immediately.
The ref separates them with sharp commands.
They reset. Marcus stays crouched, bouncing lightly on his toes. Elroy is breathing hard already—those wild swings are draining him faster than a leaky fuel tank.
The crowd murmurs, watching Marcus's calm footwork. Someone near ringside whispers about his defense. Another voice mentions his patience.
Across the gym, Jamal leans against the wall, arms crossed. His own fight is still coming, but he can't look away from what's happening in the ring.
"Kid's reading him like a book," Jamal mutters to Rico beside him.
Rico nods but stays quiet. He's thinking about his own upcoming match, wondering if he has the same kind of control Marcus is showing.
Elroy rushes again. Marcus steps back half a pace, lets him overextend, then fires a double jab to the forehead. Clean shots. The second one snaps Elroy's head back and draws a reaction from the watching fighters.
Not hard punches—but precise. Surgical.
Elroy snarls and throws a hammering right hand. A street-level punch meant to end everything in one shot.
Marcus leans right, slides inside the arc, and clinches with one arm locked under Elroy's elbow.
"Tighten up," Marcus mutters inside his guard.
Elroy shoves, trying to break free, but Marcus spins out and throws a fast left-right combination to the ribs. Elroy grunts again and staggers. He throws a wild uppercut in response, but it misses by inches.
For the first time, Elroy backs off. Hands up. He's watching now—watching Marcus's hips, trying to read the rhythm.
Marcus doesn't rush. He watches. Counts in his head.
One, two, three… move.
One, two, pause, jab.
Break the rhythm. Don't let him feel safe.
He throws a light jab—not to land, but to fake. Elroy flinches and fires off another haymaker.
Marcus slides right and comes in with a shovel hook to the body, then a guard-check jab to blur the vision.
Sweat flicks off Elroy's face like rain. His feet are getting sluggish now. Still throwing, but slower. Each missed shot costs energy he can't afford to waste.
Marcus stays on him. Not reckless—just pressure. Always a jab working. Always shifting angles slightly.
He's not fighting to hurt. He's fighting to exhaust.
In the crowd, Ahmed Hassan watches with the quiet focus of someone who's just been through the same war. Kevin de Vries sits beside him, ice pack pressed to a swollen jaw.
"Marcus is different," Kevin says quietly. "Fights like he's done this before."
Ahmed nods. "Kid's got old eyes. Moves like he knows something the rest of us don't."
They're not the only ones noticing. Coach Ruud stands with his arms crossed, watching every exchange with the intensity of someone discovering something unexpected.
Matteo leans close. "Where'd this come from? Two weeks ago he was getting tagged by everyone."
Ruud doesn't answer. Just keeps watching.
Elroy backs toward the center of the ring, chest rising and falling like a bellows. His gloves hang loose at his cheeks. The cocky grin is gone—replaced by a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.
His last few punches have missed completely, and it's starting to show in his footwork. Flat. Delayed. Heavy.
Marcus doesn't follow with wild swings. He stalks. Small steps. Head swaying just slightly in peek-a-boo rhythm. Every time Elroy twitches, Marcus flinches back half an inch and resets.
It isn't just pressure—it's psychological. Marcus is baiting the mistake.
The gym quiets. Even the wall chatter dies. Everyone feels something building.
Elroy finally throws—a jab to mask a rising uppercut.
Marcus catches the jab on his guard, then dips low, letting the uppercut pass over his shoulder. In that instant, he steps in with a short right to the ribs, followed by a compact left hook to the side of the head.
The impact staggers Elroy back into the ropes.
The crowd surges to its feet. Shouts echo off concrete walls. But Marcus doesn't react to the noise.
The system UI pings softly in his peripheral vision.
──── SYSTEM ALERT ────
STAMINA: 27%
STRIKE CONSISTENCY: IMPROVING
PEEK-A-BOO: +1
NOTE: Lower body fatigue detected.
Recommendation: Push in 8s or disengage.
────────────────
Marcus exhales through his nose, checks his stance, and resets. He doesn't charge like most fighters would. Instead, he breaks rhythm—pauses for a beat, then fires a fast triple jab.
Not all land, but they keep Elroy guessing. Then Marcus dips low and slides right, eyes tracking for desperation.
Elroy snarls, steps forward, and grabs Marcus's wrist in a clinch, yanking it downward with obvious intention.
The crowd boos immediately.
Then comes a quick, illegal shot to Marcus's thigh. Short and sneaky—delivered with the inside of the glove. Not enough to drop him, but enough to throw off his base for a crucial second.
Marcus grits his teeth. Doesn't complain. Doesn't react. He shoves off, resets, and circles away.
The referee doesn't see it—or maybe chooses not to. The crowd's reaction says it all.
From the corner, Coach Ruud's voice cuts through the tension.
"Stick to the body, Dorsey! Use what's working!"
Marcus nods once. Not at the coach—but at himself.
"Time to break him properly."
He steps in and rips a shovel hook to Elroy's ribs—the hardest shot yet. The sound echoes through the gym. Elroy's grunt is audible even over the crowd.
Elroy hunches forward, guard crumpling for a second.
Marcus fakes high, then spins off with a tight cross to the temple.
Elroy wobbles. The ropes catch him. His arms flail for balance.
Marcus doesn't rush in like an amateur. He watches. Breathes. Waits.
Around the gym, fighters lean forward. This is how fights end—not with chaos, but with calculated pressure applied at exactly the right moment.
Elroy's legs are still under him—barely. But his hands aren't where they should be. Left glove sagging. Right tucked low.
He tries to look composed, but Marcus sees it. The bluff is broken.
Marcus walks forward. Not fast—measured. Each footstep carries the weight of instinct, pain, and twenty-six years of hard-earned knowledge.
He's breathing hard, arms sore, sweat stinging his eyes. But he knows what he's doing now.
The system flashes one last time.
──── SYSTEM ALERT ────
CRITICAL MOMENT IDENTIFIED
CONDITION: ENEMY STAGGERED
WIN POTENTIAL: 88%
PEEK-A-BOO: +2
Recommended Chain:
• Lead Body Shot
• Hook to Guard
• Uppercut Finisher
───────────────
Marcus doesn't read it fully. He just feels it align with his instincts.
He steps in with a jab to measure distance. Elroy raises his arms.
Marcus dips and crunches a left hook into the floating ribs. Elroy jerks upward. His guard lifts—out of sync.
Marcus fakes a right cross. Elroy bites—steps into the wrong direction, wide open.
Marcus twists and fires the left hook off the slip—sharp, loud, perfect.
Elroy's arms rise again—but too late.
Marcus doesn't hesitate.
He launches a short, compact right uppercut from inside. Legs twist, fist rises from the hip. The punch lands clean—chin to knuckle. No wind-up. No telegraphing. Just impact and the snap of breath from a mouthguard.
Elroy's head whips back.
His knees fold.
He drops sideways, one leg kicking once before going still.
The crowd gasps. Several people rise.
The ref rushes over and starts the count.
Marcus stands perfectly still. No smile. No fist-pumping. Just breathing—hard.
At seven, it's clear Elroy's not getting up.
At ten, the ref waves it off.
"That's it!"
The system flashes calmly.
──── SYSTEM UPDATE ────
VICTORY RECORDED
METHOD: KNOCKOUT
WIN: MARCUS DORSEY
FIGHT RECORD: 1-0
PEEK-A-BOO: LEVEL 1 (7/10)
SUGGESTION: Begin Guard Variation Training
─────────────────
Coach Ruud steps toward the ring, nodding slowly. Arms still crossed. No yelling. No clapping. Just watching the kid he didn't expect.
As Marcus turns to exit the ring, one of the older fighters near the crowd leans toward his friend.
"He's not just new."
"He's something else."