The announcer's voice echoed through the arena:
"FROM MY RIGHT—ALEX FROM XANDER GYM! AND FROM MY LEFT—ZAIRO FROM LANTERN GYM!"
The crowd cheered as Alex and Zairo stepped into the ring. The referee motioned them to the center. Alex extended his hand first, and they shook. Then—ding!—the bell rang, signaling the start of round one.
The timer read 1:00.
Zairo came out fast—jab, uppercut—closing the distance quickly. Alex dodged and backed away. He was running, reacting. Zairo was aggressive, relentless.
Alex kept moving, but he wasn't fighting back.
He's a pressure fighter, Alex realized. He's trying to overwhelm me.
The first round ended without a single clean hit. No blood. No real damage. Just pressure. At the corner, Alex sat, breathing hard.
His coach leaned in.
"Hey! Don't be scared. Just punch like I told you—throw some jabs, feel his rhythm. You're a counter-boxer, remember? Slip and counter. Trust yourself."
"Okay." Alex nodded, focusing.
Round two began.
The bell rang. Zairo came in again, launching a jab. Alex slipped it. Then a hook—Alex saw it coming.
Move. Counter. His coach's voice echoed in his mind.
He ducked low and stepped in.
Now!
Alex launched an uppercut with full force. It connected—clean and brutal—right to Zairo's chin.
Zairo collapsed instantly. The crowd gasped. The referee rushed in and started the count.
"One… two… three…"
Zairo didn't move.
"He's out! He's passed out!" the ref declared.
Medics stormed the ring. Alex stood frozen, caught between victory and guilt. The crowd roared, but all he could do was stare.
The announcer shouted:
"Wow! A massive KO! That uppercut came out of nowhere! It's his first match, and look what he just did! Mark, I think this kid was born to be a boxer!"
"Yeah, absolutely. One counterpunch—just one—and it ended the whole match. That's some serious natural talent."
Back at the corner, Alex's gym team clapped and cheered for him. They called him talented, impressive.
But inside, Alex didn't feel like a hero. He felt like he'd just hurt someone who didn't deserve it.
After the match, Alex went to the medic room and found Zairo lying on a bed, conscious now but clearly shaken. Alex sat beside him.
"Hey… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Zairo looked at him and smiled weakly.
"It's okay. This is boxing. If you don't punch, you don't win. But… I appreciate you coming here. Shows you've got a good heart. How old are you?"
"Sixteen. Why?"
"Oh, not bad. I'm seventeen. I go to Aldenham School. What about you?"
"Claremont."
"Nice to meet you." Zairo extended his hand. They shook hands—two young fighters who had just shared a moment of pain, growth, and mutual respect.
Alex stood up, nodded, and walked away—his first victory behind him, and a future ahead filled with both challenge and purpose.