The crowd's noise started fading now—not because they were tired, but because everyone knew what was coming for them. The final match.
Ryan slowly walked out of the restroom; as he started walking in the hallway, his steps were slow and composed. He brushed off the dust from his shoulder; the sound of his shoes echoed faintly in the empty halls. His ribs were hurting like they could crumble any second now, his arms ached, and his muscles were completely sore.
He stepped back into the main ground. The bright lights hit him again, reflecting off the polished mat. The Boxing Club's dugout sat quietly on the side—the calm before the storm.
Arthur stood next to the wall, back leaned against it, arms crossed next to his chest.
"You're back," Arthur said flatly without looking towards him. "Took you longer than expected."
