Damon moved in with the confidence of a man who knew the end was his to claim.
Jon's legs were heavy, each step dragging across the canvas, his shoulders slumped and his guard hanging low.
Damon saw the fatigue in his eyes, there was nothing left but stubbornness and a fading will to fight.
He kept his movement crisp, feet light, his stance switching between orthodox and southpaw as he sized up Jon from every angle.
Damon pawed out a jab, not to land but to draw Jon's hands up. Jon flinched, his gloves twitching to meet the feint, and that was all Damon needed.
He slipped inside, throwing a tight left hook that snapped Jon's head to the side, sweat and blood flying from his hair.
Jon tried to respond with a desperate right, but Damon saw it coming, he dipped his head under the shot, twisting his hips and firing a shovel hook to Jon's ribs that landed with a meaty thump.
Jon's breath whooshed out, his knees buckling for a split second.
