"Next," Bruce said.
The word was a razor, thin and sharp. His tone remained deceptively level, a masterclass in controlled authority, but the air in the room had curdled.
The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a thick, suffocating layer of dread. The enforcers weren't just watching a fight anymore; they were watching a dissection.
The second man stepped forward. He was shorter than Dax, built like a fire hydrant: dense, wide, and solid.
Unlike Dax's raw, brawling energy, this man moved with a disciplined, rhythmic grace. He raised his hands in a tight, professional guard, his knuckles facing Mike, his eyes locked on Mike's center of mass. He was a trained striker, a man who understood the geometry of violence.
Without a word of warning, he exploded into motion.
Pop, pop, crack.
