'Someone who knows you need this footage more than I need your signature,' Whitney
replied smoothly, dissecting his motivation with surgical precision. 'You want a viral video?
You pay for it. Put five thousand on the apron, or I walk out, and your little security guards
there are going to have to assault a woman on camera to stop me.'
Hunter blinked, completely taken aback. 'What?' 'Five thousand dollars,' Whitney
repeated, her voice carrying clearly across the gym, devoid of fear. 'Cash. Up front. For sixty
seconds.' Hunter burst out laughing, and his crew joined in, though the laughter sounded
slightly forced. 'You've got some nerve, lady! Five grand? Who do you think you are?'
'Someone who knows you need this footage more than I need your signature,' Whitney
replied smoothly, dissecting his motivation with surgical precision. 'You want a viral video?
You pay for it. Put five thousand on the apron, or I walk out, and your little security guards
there are going to have to assault a woman on camera to stop me.'
Hunter scowled, his pride deeply stung. He looked over at his manager—a slick man in a
track suit standing near the cameras. The manager, doing the math on the ad revenue of a
viral confrontation, gave a slight nod. Five grand was a drop in the bucket. 'Fine,' Hunter
spat. He gestured to his manager, who jogged over to a duffel bag, pulled out a thick stack of
hundred-dollar bills, and tossed it onto the canvas of the ring. 'There's your money,' Hunter
sneered. 'Now, put on the gloves.'
Hunter scowled, his pride deeply stung. He looked over at his manager—a slick man in a
track suit standing near the cameras. The manager, doing the math on the ad revenue of a
viral confrontation, gave a slight nod. Five grand was a drop in the bucket. 'Fine,' Hunter
spat. He gestured to his manager, who jogged over to a duffel bag, pulled out a thick stack of
hundred-dollar bills, and tossed it onto the canvas of the ring. 'There's your money,' Hunter
sneered. 'Now, put on the gloves.'
Hunter scowled, his pride deeply stung. He looked over at his manager—a slick man in a
track suit standing near the cameras. The manager, doing the math on the ad revenue of a
viral confrontation, gave a slight nod. Five grand was a drop in the bucket. 'Fine,' Hunter
spat. He gestured to his manager, who jogged over to a duffel bag, pulled out a thick stack of
hundred-dollar bills, and tossed it onto the canvas of the ring. 'There's your money,' Hunter
sneered. 'Now, put on the gloves.'
Whitney slowly set the delivery box down on a bench. She unzipped her gray hoodie and
folded it neatly over the ropes. Underneath, she wore a simple, fitted black t-shirt. She
walked over to the communal equipment rack and selected a pair of standard 16-ounce
sparring gloves. As she slid her hands into the gloves, she closed her eyes. The smell of the
leather. The dim hum of the lights. The feeling of the wrapped padding over her knuckles. It
all rushed back. Don't fight angry, Whit, Walter's voice echoed in her mind, a ghost from
decades past. Fight ready. She wasn't angry. She was a mother trying to pay for her
daughter's medicine. This boy was just an obstacle. She stepped through the ropes and into
the ring.
Whitney slowly set the delivery box down on a bench. She unzipped her gray hoodie and
folded it neatly over the ropes. Underneath, she wore a simple, fitted black t-shirt. She
walked over to the communal equipment rack and selected a pair of standard 16-ounce
sparring gloves. As she slid her hands into the gloves, she closed her eyes. The smell of the
leather. The dim hum of the lights. The feeling of the wrapped padding over her knuckles. It
all rushed back. Don't fight angry, Whit, Walter's voice echoed in her mind, a ghost from
decades past. Fight ready. She wasn't angry. She was a mother trying to pay for her
daughter's medicine. This boy was just an obstacle. She stepped through the ropes and into
the ring.
Whitney slowly set the delivery box down on a bench. She unzipped her gray hoodie and
folded it neatly over the ropes. Underneath, she wore a simple, fitted black t-shirt. She
walked over to the communal equipment rack and selected a pair of standard 16-ounce
sparring gloves. As she slid her hands into the gloves, she closed her eyes. The smell of the
leather. The dim hum of the lights. The feeling of the wrapped padding over her knuckles. It
all rushed back. Don't fight angry, Whit, Walter's voice echoed in her mind, a ghost from
decades past. Fight ready. She wasn't angry. She was a mother trying to pay for her
daughter's medicine. This boy was just an obstacle. She stepped through the ropes and into
the ring.
Chapter 10: Six Seconds to Reality
Hunter danced around the ring, throwing flashy, rapid-fire combinations into the air. He
was fast, no doubt about it, but his movement was entirely wasteful. He expended energy
bouncing heavily on his toes, trying to look good for the cameras rather than establishing a
solid base of balance. Whitney walked to the center of the ring. She didn't bounce. She
planted her feet firmly on the canvas. Her stance was orthodox, hands held high and tight,
elbows tucked tight against her ribs to protect her organs. The transition was subtle, but
anyone who truly knew the sweet science of boxing would have noticed the immediate
shift. She wasn't standing like a scared civilian; she was standing like a steel vault door.
Hunter danced around the ring, throwing flashy, rapid-fire combinations into the air. He
was fast, no doubt about it, but his movement was entirely wasteful. He expended energy
bouncing heavily on his toes, trying to look good for the cameras rather than establishing a
solid base of balance. Whitney walked to the center of the ring. She didn't bounce. She
planted her feet firmly on the canvas. Her stance was orthodox, hands held high and tight,
elbows tucked tight against her ribs to protect her organs. The transition was subtle, but
anyone who truly knew the sweet science of boxing would have noticed the immediate
shift. She wasn't standing like a scared civilian; she was standing like a steel vault door.
Hunter danced around the ring, throwing flashy, rapid-fire combinations into the air. He
was fast, no doubt about it, but his movement was entirely wasteful. He expended energy
bouncing heavily on his toes, trying to look good for the cameras rather than establishing a