In that fraction of a second, Tommy made his choice.
He didn’t throw the liver hook.
He didn’t throw the devastating uppercut.
Instead, Tommy straightened up slightly, uncoiling his power, and threw a stiff, pushing right cross straight into the center of Hunter’s chest.
It wasn’t a knockout punch.
It was a shove disguised as a strike.
But it was enough.
Hunter, his equilibrium already shattered, his legs trembling from the adrenaline dump and the previous body shot, couldn’t absorb the backward momentum.
His knees buckled.
He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, and collapsed onto his backside in the center of the ring.
The crowd went completely silent.
Hunter sat on the canvas.
He looked up at the blinding halogen lights.
He wasn’t unconscious.
He wasn’t severely hurt.
But he was down.
The referee rushed in, pointing Tommy to a neutral corner.
“One.”
Tommy backed into the white corner, resting his elbows on the ropes.
He looked at Ernest.
Ernest gave his son a slow, imperceptible nod.
He understood exactly what Tommy had done.
It was the ultimate display of superiority.
Tommy hadn’t just beaten Hunter physically.
He had spared him.
“Two.”
“Three.”
Hunter looked toward his corner.
Richard Cole was standing on the apron, his face purple with rage, his pristine tie knocked askew.
“Get up!” Cole screamed, his voice cracking, echoing through the silent ballroom.
“Get on your feet! You are a Cole! You do not quit to trash!”
“Four.”
“Five.”
Hunter looked at his father.
For the first time in his life, the fear of the man on the apron was outweighed by the reality of the square canvas.
Cole’s money couldn’t stop the bleeding.
Cole’s screaming couldn’t put air back into Hunter’s lungs.
The billionaire was utterly powerless here.
Hunter looked across the ring at Tommy.
Tommy just stood there breathing evenly, his gloves resting on the ropes.
He wasn’t taunting.
He was just waiting.
“Six.”
“Seven.”
Hunter made a decision.
He reached up, grabbed his mouthpiece with his thick padded glove, and pulled it out.
He dropped the piece of plastic onto the bloodstained canvas.
Then Hunter lay back.
He flattened himself against the floor, staring up at the chandelier, and closed his eyes.
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
Out.
The referee waved his arms over his head, crossing them in a sweeping motion.
The fight was over.
There was no deafening roar of applause.
The wealthy spectators sat frozen in their velvet chairs.
The Zenith Athletic Club felt like a tomb.
They had come to watch a coronation, a violent confirmation that their status protected them from the grit of the real world.
Instead, they had watched a mechanic’s son systematically dismantle their illusion of invulnerability.
