His swollen face had deformed his nose, and after the numbness wore off, his face felt like it was burning. Even the slightest touch or breeze felt like a knife cutting. Fatty's slap was truly vicious. The tattooed man panted, his eyes roaming over Fatty. He glanced to one side of the fighting arena where his coach stood, who was also his boss and his best friend.
"Just one more try, if it doesn't work, surrender immediately. This Fatty is strange!" The tattooed man thought to himself, his eyes fixed on Fatty's throat and groin. In Special Forces' hand-to-hand combat, there were no fancy tricks; it was all about neutralizing the enemy with one move. The tattooed man licked his dry lips; these techniques he practiced every day, never letting them go to waste over the year he had been imprisoned.
