He stumbled forward and barely caught himself before falling.
Several spectators gasped.
Blake spun toward me.
“Lucky.”
I didn’t respond.
He advanced again.
A jab.
A right cross.
A left hook.
I avoided each strike with small, controlled movements.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that would impress someone who measured fighting ability by how aggressively a person moved.
I simply shifted enough to remain
out of reach.
Blake’s breathing began to change.
He couldn’t understand why his punches kept missing a man who barely appeared to be moving.
“Fight back!” he shouted.
I looked straight at him.
“You’re not giving me a reason to.”
His face reddened.
He threw another hook.
This time, I caught his wrist, redirected his forward momentum, and released him.
He turned halfway around before regaining his balance.
A murmur spread through the spectators.
Blake stared at me.
The confidence was beginning to leave his face.
