Damon reset his feet and let a wild low kick fly, too wide, it missed by inches, Jon's leg slipping just out of range. Damon's teeth ground together, his breath steady, eyes sharp.
The commentators were fired up, voices rising over the roar of the crowd.
"Damon Cross is putting on a show here!" the first one said, nearly out of breath himself. "Jon's still in it, but he looks completely gassed out."
"You can see it, Jon's punches are getting slower, more predictable," the second commentator agreed. "And Damon's not just surviving, he's thriving. Look at that movement, weaving through Jon's shots like Muhammad Ali!"
Jon threw another looping right that Damon saw coming a mile away.
He bobbed under it, a slight grin flickering across his lips, and popped up with a jab that snapped Jon's head back.
Damon didn't even pause, he kept weaving, slipping another tired cross from Jon that whiffed past his ear.
