Ernest watched the billionaire berate his bleeding son.
He felt a sudden heavy wave of pity for the boy.
Hunter was a monster, yes, but he was a monster built in Richard Cole’s factory.
Tommy looked at Ernest, following his father’s gaze to the chaotic corner across the canvas.
“Dad,” Tommy said softly, his voice clear over the noise of the crowd.
“I don’t think he wants to fight anymore.”
Ernest looked down at his son.
Tommy wasn’t angry anymore.
The fear was gone.
The desperation was gone.
All that was left was a calm, cold understanding of exactly who they were dealing with.
“He doesn’t have a choice,” Ernest said.
“His father won’t let him quit.”
Ernest pulled the stool away as the ten-second clacker sounded.
“So,” Ernest said, his eyes locking onto Tommy’s.
“You’re going to have to make the choice for him.”
The bell shrieked to start the third round.
Hunter did not stand up immediately.
The massive trainer had to grab the boy by the armpits and haul him to his feet, shoving him roughly toward the center of the ring.
Hunter walked forward like a man waiting through wet cement.
His gloves were held high, practically glued to his cheekbones, hiding his broken nose.
His chest heaved in ragged wet gasps.
The cocky smirk was gone, replaced by the wide, unblinking stare of prey that knows the trap has snapped shut.
Tommy met him in the center.
He didn’t rush.
He kept his footwork crisp, sliding laterally, forcing Hunter to pivot.
Hunter’s legs were gone.
He shuffled, dragging his heavy boxing boots across the canvas.
Tommy snapped a double jab.
Pop. Pop.
They didn’t land hard, just tapped against Hunter’s thick gloves, but Hunter flinched violently, his eyes squeezing shut.
He was fighting entirely on terrified instinct.
Now he threw a blind, sweeping right hand, a desperation heave that had no hip rotation and no balance.
Tommy easily ducked under it.
He stepped into the pocket, his left foot planted perfectly on the outside of Hunter’s lead foot.
He had the angle.
He had the opening.
Ernest watched from the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The liver was wide open again.
One solid hook and Hunter would be on the floor vomiting.
Or the jaw.
The boy’s chin was exposed, begging for an uppercut that would sever his consciousness from his body.
Tommy cocked his left shoulder.
He saw the target.
But Tommy hesitated.
He looked at Hunter’s face.
Beneath the blood and the sweat, Tommy didn’t see the bully who had smashed a combination lock into his eye.
He saw a thirteen-year-old kid who was absolutely terrified of his own father.
He saw a boy who had been built to be a weapon only to discover he was entirely fragile.
