"What did you do to the hitdevil, you bastard." Daimon's voice carried no heat, no rage—just hollow exhaustion. His pale eyes remained fixed on Rhett, unblinking.
The arena had fallen into an uncomfortable quiet. Thirty seconds stretched like hours, neither fighter moving, neither making the first strike. In the VIP box above, Charlie Buster gripped the microphone with white knuckles.
"And after thirty seconds of an awkward showdown, the contestants have done... nothing!" Charlie's voice cracked through clenched teeth. "Come on, guys! Why are y'all making the last match so rough for me! At least do something?"
The crowd began to stir restlessly. Scattered boos echoed from the upper tiers. Someone threw a bottle that shattered against the arena floor.
Rhett kept his focus trained on Daimon's every muscle twitch, waiting for some sign of attack. But the other man stood motionless, shoulders sagging. There was no anger in his stance, no determination in his posture. Only fear.
