Ramos gets up from the stool and faces the center of the ring, waiting for the bell.
The noise presses in again; shouts, whistles, the low roar of the crowd. But his breathing stays even. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Controlled.
This is familiar territory. Every fight he's ever won lives here, in this waiting.
Not on a single punch. Not on a gamble or a flash of timing. Ramos has never needed that. He's never trusted it. Counters break fights open by accident; momentum breaks them on purpose.
For him, he's always won in the same two ways.
Drown them in punches, round after round, volume stacking like interest, damage accumulating until legs soften, guards sag, eyes slow. Or carry that same pressure all the way to the final bell, where the numbers tell the story for him.
Either drop his opponent with accumulated damage, or win by majority decisions. Both need the same thing.
Discipline. Tight rhythm. High volume of punches.
