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Sweat was dripping off the ceiling like the place itself was bleeding, and the crowd behind the foggy glass was pounding fists on the wall like animals starved for blood. Mikey had his back slammed into the plywood paneling, eyes wide, mouth half open like he just got hit by a fucking truck. He did not see it coming—that savage knee, that sick fucking crack right to the gut, courtesy of Gino, the psycho bastard from Jersey who fights like he has rent due and a grudge against the world. Mikey’s gloves were twitching up instinctively, but he was too slow, too stunned, and now he was folded like laundry, wheezing for air that was not coming.
Gino was not done. Not by a long fucking shot. His fist was cocked back like a wrecking ball, veins bulging, jaw tight, eyes locked on Mikey’s face like he was about to paint the walls with it. Every hit Gino threw had history in it—bar fights, jail nights, daddy issues—shit you do not shake off. And Mikey? Poor bastard looked like he was realizing too late that this was not any friendly spar in the gym. This was war in a rotted-out furnace of a room, two guys in nothing but trunks and boots, no rules, no referee, just the stink of desperation and the taste of blood in your throat.
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