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 grinned, slipping his mouthpiece in. 'Ready to earn your money, lady?' The
timekeeper, one of Hunter's buddies, hit the bell. Ding. Hunter leaped forward immediately,
intending to throw a flurry of light, slapping jabs just to intimidate her, to make her flinch
and cower for the thumbnail of his video. He threw a lightning-fast left jab directly toward
her face. Whitney didn't flinch. She simply slipped her head a fraction of an inch to the
right. The glove breezed harmlessly past her ear, displacing the air next to her cheek.
Hunter, surprised by the clean miss, immediately followed up with a right cross, putting a
bit more weight into it out of frustration. Whitney parried it effortlessly with her left glove,
slapping his wrist away and guiding the punch past her shoulder, instantly throwing his
momentum off balance. Two seconds had passed.
Hunter grinned, slipping his mouthpiece in. 'Ready to earn your money, lady?' The
timekeeper, one of Hunter's buddies, hit the bell. Ding. Hunter leaped forward immediately,
intending to throw a flurry of light, slapping jabs just to intimidate her, to make her flinch
and cower for the thumbnail of his video. He threw a lightning-fast left jab directly toward
her face. Whitney didn't flinch. She simply slipped her head a fraction of an inch to the
right. The glove breezed harmlessly past her ear, displacing the air next to her cheek.
Hunter, surprised by the clean miss, immediately followed up with a right cross, putting a
bit more weight into it out of frustration. Whitney parried it effortlessly with her left glove,
slapping his wrist away and guiding the punch past her shoulder, instantly throwing his
momentum off balance. Two seconds had passed.
Hunter grinned, slipping his mouthpiece in. 'Ready to earn your money, lady?' The
timekeeper, one of Hunter's buddies, hit the bell. Ding. Hunter leaped forward immediately,
intending to throw a flurry of light, slapping jabs just to intimidate her, to make her flinch
and cower for the thumbnail of his video. He threw a lightning-fast left jab directly toward
her face. Whitney didn't flinch. She simply slipped her head a fraction of an inch to the
right. The glove breezed harmlessly past her ear, displacing the air next to her cheek.
Hunter, surprised by the clean miss, immediately followed up with a right cross, putting a
bit more weight into it out of frustration. Whitney parried it effortlessly with her left glove,
slapping his wrist away and guiding the punch past her shoulder, instantly throwing his
momentum off balance. Two seconds had passed.
Hunter's eyes widened. He realized in that microscopic moment that something was
horribly, terribly wrong. The woman standing in front of him wasn't an amateur. She wasn't
a civilian. Her eyes were completely dead, devoid of panic, locked squarely onto his
collarbone, tracking his center of mass rather than chasing his hands. Panicking slightly, his
massive ego taking a sudden hit, Hunter decided to drop the playful act. He loaded up a
heavy, vicious left hook, intending to knock her down and end the embarrassment right
then and there. Four seconds. As Hunter swung wildly, leaving his entire right side horribly
exposed, Whitney stepped inside his guard. It was a fluid, predatory movement, executed
with terrifying, practiced precision. She pivoted on her lead foot, transferring the kinetic
energy from the canvas, up through her hips, and into her right shoulder. She threw a
devastating right uppercut.
Hunter's eyes widened. He realized in that microscopic moment that something was
horribly, terribly wrong. The woman standing in front of him wasn't an amateur. She wasn't
a civilian. Her eyes were completely dead, devoid of panic, locked squarely onto his
collarbone, tracking his center of mass rather than chasing his hands. Panicking slightly, his
massive ego taking a sudden hit, Hunter decided to drop the playful act. He loaded up a
heavy, vicious left hook, intending to knock her down and end the embarrassment right
then and there. Four seconds. As Hunter swung wildly, leaving his entire right side horribly
exposed, Whitney stepped inside his guard. It was a fluid, predatory movement, executed
with terrifying, practiced precision. She pivoted on her lead foot, transferring the kinetic
energy from the canvas, up through her hips, and into her right shoulder. She threw a
devastating right uppercut.
Hunter's eyes widened. He realized in that microscopic moment that something was
horribly, terribly wrong. The woman standing in front of him wasn't an amateur. She wasn't
a civilian. Her eyes were completely dead, devoid of panic, locked squarely onto his
collarbone, tracking his center of mass rather than chasing his hands. Panicking slightly, his
massive ego taking a sudden hit, Hunter decided to drop the playful act. He loaded up a
heavy, vicious left hook, intending to knock her down and end the embarrassment right
then and there. Four seconds. As Hunter swung wildly, leaving his entire right side horribly
exposed, Whitney stepped inside his guard. It was a fluid, predatory movement, executed
with terrifying, practiced precision. She pivoted on her lead foot, transferring the kinetic
energy from the canvas, up through her hips, and into her right shoulder. She threw a
devastating right uppercut.
It wasn't a wild, looping punch. It was a compact, explosive missile that traveled a mere
eight inches. It bypassed Hunter's dropping arm and connected squarely, sickeningly,
beneath his floating rib. The sound of the impact echoed through the gym like a gunshot.
CRACK. Five seconds. Hunter's eyes bugged out of his head. All the air was violently
expelled from his lungs in a horrifying, wheezing gasp. The liver shot is the most
debilitating, painful strike in combat sports. It shuts down the body's central nervous
system, bypassing conscious thought and forcing an involuntary, immediate physical