Kenta comes forward without pretense now. No probing. No rhythm to disguise it.
He lunges in with both gloves clenched, shoulders flaring wider than any textbook would allow, openings yawning across his centerline like an invitation.
It's wrong, ultimately reckless. And that's what makes it terrifying.
"He's not done!" a commentator shouts. "He's throwing the book away!"
"This isn't pressure anymore," the other says. "This is a man chasing the finish!"
For a split second, Liam sees the opening, sees the counter waiting to be taken before anything even comes.
His left glove rises, seeming to fly.
But his breath catches. It's not fear of getting hit, but fear of stepping in wrong. Just a heartbeat, barely even that. And that hesitation costs him.
Kenta's left comes first, a hook rising from low, slanted upward toward the jaw from Liam's right side.
