The fight seemed to go in Leon's favor for a while. He cornered Sam, put in heavy punches, kept a tempo that made Sam's attempts clumsy. Sam lunged for grips and came up empty more than once. Leon taunted with light jabs and lefts that landed just enough to sting without letting Sam find his hold.
"Come on, come on," Arthur muttered from the side, watching more than fighting for the moment. "Give him a real go."
Sam's hands worked like traps, his fingers trying to find fabric, skin, belt. He smelled of adrenaline and a cheap cologne. The fight was getting ugly for him; every missed grab was a small cut of confidence. The crowd's voices rose and fell with every swing.
Then Sam did something that only made sense when you were desperate. He threw dust into Leon's eyes—fine grit that painted the air and stole vision. It was a small, rotten trick, but effective.
