Yanagimoto's feet keep moving, but the certainty in them begins to thin. His punches no longer flow from position to position. They start from intention instead.
Each jab is thrown with the same thought behind it now, not range-finding or setup, but fixation.
Hit his face. Hit that annoying ugly face.
"This bastard… how could he be smiling now?"
Shimamura's movement invites it. The sway is ugly and loose, his head dipping and rolling like it belongs to a man who is barely holding himself upright.
His mouth hangs open as he breathes, sweat streaking down his neck and chest. Everything about him looks like a provocation.
In the booth, one of the commentators lowers his voice without meaning to. "Look at his face," he says. "That is not a man trying to survive a bad round."
His partner hesitates, then nods slowly. "Just a while ago, he was getting punished," he says. "Clean body shots. Heavy punches on the face. This should be the part where a challenger starts backing up."
