The sucker punch
He'd trained for it. Blood and sweat and glints of tears for it. He was focused, every day building on all he has learned; each punch, every combination to put those very punches into motion, the footwork, the speedwork. Switching between punch bags with ease like a drummer can switch grooves on his drum kit until it was engrained in his brain. To no longer think about, he would just do it, he could react, he could take control. On the bags, in the ring, in the gym and in the shadows. Building and gathering a rhythm on the jump rope, dodging and weaving with sparring partners off the ropes of his battleground. And now here he was, shuffling out, alternating little hops and jumps on each foot, his fists wrapped neatly and tightly in his gloves that gleamed in the spotlights as he made his way through the crowds of the arena. His head shrouded in his hood, his gaze firm and blazing out of it like the Grim Reaper. Confident. Focused. Pumped. Focused. Nothing could deter him from movin...
