Mark smirked, his voice cutting through the tense air. "You're out of your league, Cross. You think you're special?" he taunted, his words laced with arrogance.
Damon didn't respond, focusing instead on maintaining his stance. He shifted slightly, his body light on his feet, prepared for Mark's next move.
Mark's eyes narrowed, and he darted forward, feinting with his left hand before throwing a quick jab aimed at Damon's face.
Damon saw it coming and swayed back, narrowly avoiding the punch.
"Mark's trying to bait Damon with those jabs," Michael Bosley commented from the table. "He's setting up for something bigger."
"Yeah, but Damon's keeping his cool," Daniel Greene added. "He's not falling for it."
Mark didn't let up, pressing forward with another jab, but this time, Damon snapped a quick low kick to Mark's lead leg.
The kick connected with a solid thud, and Mark grunted, retreating slightly.
"You're gonna pay for that," Mark growled, shaking his leg out.
He suddenly dropped his level and lunged for Damon's waist, going for a takedown.
Damon reacted quickly, sprawling back and shoving Mark's head down, stopping the attempt.
"Nice defense by Damon," Michael noted. "He saw that takedown coming a mile away."
Mark pushed off, backing up a few steps before raising his fists again. He looked frustrated but determined.
"You're just running, Cross!" Mark shouted, trying to rile Damon up. "Come on, fight me!"
Damon didn't rise to the bait, staying calm. He shuffled forward and threw another low kick, this time targeting Mark's other leg. The kick hit its mark, and Mark winced, his stance faltering for a moment.
Mark stepped forward, throwing a wild right hook. Damon ducked under it and fired a quick knee into Mark's midsection.
The strike wasn't perfect, but it was enough to make Mark stumble back.
But the look in Mark's eyes showed that he was starting to realize just how tough Damon was.
The final seconds of the round ticked away as Damon and Mark circled each other cautiously.
Mark threw a half-hearted jab, but Damon easily sidestepped, maintaining his distance. The crowd's cheers echoed through the packed hall, the tension palpable.
With a loud, metallic clang, the bell signaled the end of the round. Both fighters backed away, their expressions intense but controlled.
Damon took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he made his way to his corner.
He didn't have a team or coach waiting for him—just a lone stool where he sat, catching his breath and mentally reviewing the round.
Mark, on the other hand, trudged to his corner, visibly frustrated. His corner team quickly surrounded him, offering water and advice as he leaned against the cage, his breaths heavy.
"Listen, Mark," his coach said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. "You're letting him dictate the pace. He's keeping you at range with those kicks, and you're rushing in without thinking."
Mark nodded, his eyes locked on his coach, but his frustration was clear.
"Stop trying to go for those takedowns unless you're setting them up better," the coach continued. "He's reading them too easily. You need to feint more, make him commit, and then shoot in. If you keep telegraphing like that, he's just gonna stuff you every time."
Mark clenched his fists, absorbing the advice.
"Look, he's got a reach advantage, and he's using it well," another corner man chimed in. "But he's not invincible. His defense isn't perfect—he's dropping his hands a bit after those low kicks. If you time it right, you can catch him. And remember, you've got power. One good shot, and you can turn this around."
Mark's coach nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Don't just charge in like a bull. Be smart, work the body a bit, and when you see him drop his guard, go for that right hook. But you have to stay patient. Don't let him frustrate you."
Mark took a deep breath, nodding again. "Got it," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Across the cage, Damon remained quiet, his eyes focused and calm as he mentally prepared for the next round.
He knew Mark would come out strong, and he needed to stay sharp.
There was no one in his corner to advise him, but he trusted his instincts and training.