Son smiled—a smile that didn't belong in a fight. It curled at the corners of his lips like he had already won, like this wasn't a contest but a formality.
His eyes flicked to the crowd, then to Mikey. That same cocky grin deepened, drawing a quiet murmur from the bystanders.
Then, with theatrical laziness, his gaze shifted back to Mikey.
That was the moment Mikey moved. He dropped into a low stance, his foot sliding back and his fists rising to his face.
His knuckles clenched tightly, protecting his jaw. Then, he released a breath—not just any breath, but a sharp, pressurized puff that escaped through his nose. It was less of a sigh and more of a signal.
"Come at me, son." he muttered under his breath.
Son didn't need a second invitation. With a thud that echoed through the pit, he launched himself forward. The movement was a blur—too fast, too clean. A single push from his back leg sent him careening forward, and in a flash, he was upon Mikey.
But Mikey was ready.
