A Walkoff Tap

The overhead arena spotlights buzzed faintly above. My rigid fists suddenly twitched with genuine warmth. I tilted my chin, feeling the tension loosen along my shoulders. Right beneath my feet lay another fighter figure, flat on his back. Instead of staying frozen mid-strike, I dropped my guard with a slow, smooth shrug. With a light grin, I stepped one foot back and tapped the heel of my glove against the opponent's motionless shoulder. No count needed—just me, moving on my own time under the lights.