The horn echoed, breaking apart the clash, and the fighters retreated to their corners.
Damon had seen enough to know who carried the edge.
Chase Dunham had shown flashes of danger, those quick bursts of unpredictable offense that forced Zulu to adjust, but it was Zulu's pressure and awkward, grinding rhythm that had dictated the majority of the round.
His looping punches, ugly but effective, and the way he crowded space with constant level changes and clinch pressure had steadily worn on Chase.
Zulu sat down heavy on his stool, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
His coach worked on a cut near his brow, dabbing Vaseline, while another offered water.
He looked restless, nodding at everything but eager to get back out. He thrived in chaos, and his style didn't require polish, just persistence.
Across the cage, Chase leaned against the fence, his chest heaving harder.
