She did not retreat. Her expression remained entirely deadpan, her dark eyes tracking the trajectory of his fist with terrifying computational speed. At the absolute last microsecond, she pivoted on the heel of her black combat boot. She slipped seamlessly beneath his extended arm, the displaced air from his heavy punch ruffling the stray hairs of her tight cornrows.
Before the Cocky Fighter could recalibrate his balance, she retaliated.
Her movement was a blur of dark crimson and black. Driving her weight upward from her core, she planted her taped fist directly into his exposed liver. The impact sounded like a baseball bat striking wet leather. The breath violently evacuated the Cocky Fighter’s lungs. His arrogant grin vanished, replaced instantly by a mask of sheer, paralyzing agony. The silver shorts crumpled as his knees gave out, sending him crashing face-first onto the damp, cracked concrete. He did not get back up. The fight had lasted precisely four seconds.
The chaotic roar of the warehouse died instantly. The sudden silence was absolute and suffocating, save for the low, electric buzz of the crimson and cyan neon tubes suspended from the rafters. The crowd of hardened men pressed their faces against the chain-link fence, their mouths hanging open in collective shock.
In the center of the cage, the woman slowly pulled her fist back. She didn't celebrate. She didn't acknowledge the fallen man at her feet. She simply rolled her shoulders, the dark crimson fabric of her crop top shifting over her highly defined musculature, and locked her cold, unblinking gaze onto the next target.