He was incredibly fast.
He threw a brutal left jab, immediately followed by a right cross, and pivoted into a bone-breaking low kick aimed straight at my leg.
The crowd gasped and flinched back, waiting for the impact to shatter my knee.
Travis’s shin sliced toward my knee with enough force to buckle a fence post.
I moved half a step.
His kick missed by an inch.
Before his foot touched the ground, I caught his shoulder, turned with his momentum, and sent him stumbling past me.
The crowd went silent.
Travis spun around, face burning.
“Lucky again.”
He charged harder.
Jab. Cross. Hook.
I slipped each strike without throwing one of my own.
To everyone watching, it probably looked strange.
To me, it felt painfully familiar.
Eleven years vanished.
Cold warehouses. Midnight rides. Men twice Travis’s size trying to prove something before realizing too late who they had challenged.
