The sound in the room hung heavy, like metal left out in rain. Everyone's ears were tuned to the place the voice had come from, but Arthur did not stop. He kept hitting Warren like a metronome, each blow tight and exact.
There was no grand flourish to his moves. No shouting. He just moved his feet and threw punches the way a craftsman uses a chisel, every strike meant to finish the work clean.
Warren tried to answer back. He moved differently now, not like a boxer but like someone who had learned to fight on streets where rules were suggestions.
He used capoeira moves, wide circular steps and low spinning kicks that looked almost dancelike until they landed. The thing about capoeira is the rhythm, the way the body turns and hides power in flow. Warren spun like water, trying to make his hits miss and his counters find a place.
