The referee's command to clear the corners doesn't bring relief. It sharpens everything. The ring empties, leaving the space exposed and unforgiving.
Instead of settling, the crowd tightens around it; voices rising, chants breaking out, anticipation spilling over in uneven waves.
Some shout Kenta's name, raw and insistent. Others, foreign accents near the front rows, call out for Liam to take control, to strike back, to end it.
"Well, the break is over," one commentator says, leaning forward. "And Moriyama's corner gave him absolutely nothing. No instructions. No adjustments."
"So whatever we're about to see," the other adds, "it's coming straight from the fighter himself. If last round was intense… this could be even worse."
The referee glances between them, steps back.
And then…
Ding!
Round Four.
Liam claims the center first, feet light, bouncing once as his shoulders loosen. His hands come up clean, eyes locked forward, intent clear.
