The arena swells with a new pitch; Liam's fans roaring with the certainty of ownership now, while the neutrals who'd fallen for Kenta's wild second round shift uneasily, anxiety creeping in as the upset they imagined starts slipping away.
In the red corner, there's no scramble this time, no urgency. Towels swipe sweat from Liam's brow. Fresh Vaseline glistens along his cheekbones.
Meanwhile, in the front row, Liam's mother exhales at last, nodding twice to herself. She had a fear that the son's face would turn ugly after this fight. But he looks fine now, no need to worry.
Masahiro smooths Liam's hair back into place, neat and slick, like he's preparing him for a camera, not a war.
"That round was yours. Completely…" he says, grinning. "See? No need to stress about that Soviet style nonsense. He's slowing. That outburst in the third round was just desperation. He can't keep it for longer round. He never does. Round five is where he drops."
