Round two began as both fighters came off their stools, their corners emptying out of the cage.
Damon leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp. Max Taylor's right arm wasn't moving the same.
It wasn't limp, but every time he raised it, Damon could see the slight hesitation in the shoulder, the stiffness in the extension.
That armbar Kenji had thrown up wasn't perfect, but it had done damage.
Max rolled the shoulder once as he took the center, his face set hard like nothing was wrong.
Fighters lied with their bodies more than their mouths, Damon thought. He wasn't going to admit he was hurt, but the evidence was there.
"Hopefully it doesn't become a problem for him," Damon thought, his arms folding. "But that's unlikely."
Max was aggressive by nature, and an aggressive fighter with one arm compromised had two choices, hide it and mask the weakness, or use creativity to disguise it and make the opponent second-guess.
Damon wanted to see which one Max leaned toward.
