Two rounds. Two giants completely dismantled in under a minute.
The electric hum of the crimson and cyan neon tubes was the only sound left in the underground club. The crowd of hardened men pressed against the exterior of the cage, their faces pale, staring in absolute, paralyzed awe at the carnage on the floor. The haze of smoke swirling in the air caught the red light, making the entire fighting surface look like it was bathed in blood.
In the center of the destruction stood the victor. She did not raise her arms in triumph. She did not scream for the crowd's adulation. Her breathing was perfectly even, the slow, controlled rhythm of a seasoned predator. The thin, fresh scratch on her left cheekbone had stopped bleeding, serving as the only physical evidence that she had even been engaged in combat. She rolled her shoulders, the black tactical cargo pants shifting as she slowly turned her deadpan gaze toward the heavy iron door of the cage.
She had asked for three.
A towering figure, the largest man remaining in the warehouse, separated himself from the stunned crowd. He wore a heavy leather motorcycle jacket and carried a thick steel chain wrapped around his knuckles. He stepped up to the rusted perimeter, grabbing the chain-link fence with his massive hands. The entire room held its collective breath, anticipating the final, brutal round.
He stared through the metal diamond patterns, looking at the battered, unconscious bodies of the reigning champions. Then, he looked up and met the cold, unblinking eyes of the woman in the crimson top.