Still, his mind feels clear, too clear. Liam knows exactly where he is, knows the count, knows the crowd, knows the fight is slipping away. And that clarity terrifies him.
He forces himself up again. For a heartbeat, it looks fine. He's standing, eyes open wide, seems trying to tell the ref to stop counting.
He even nods once, like he's answering a question no one asked. The ref hasn't even asked him anything.
Then his legs betray him. They don't collapse outright. They hesitate, shake hard, refuse to sync with the rest of him.
The brain is issuing commands, sharp and urgent, but the body is lagging, half a second behind every thought.
"Oh… no," a commentator mutters, blinking. "This doesn't look right."
Liam drifts toward center on unsteady legs, not by choice but by imbalance, his path curving awkwardly, almost circular, as though straight lines no longer exist for him.
