First Round

My right arm was already locked high in the air. Tight. Stiff. Then blood or spark or pure grit rushed into the knuckles inside this red glove. I flexed. The joint snapped free. There was a bearded punk standing right across from me, stone-still with his fists balled. I didn't waste a second talking. I planted my boots on the wooden desk, leaned in, and threw a heavy right jab straight at his chest harness. The solid plastic thud echoed against the glowing screen behind us. He didn't budge, but my punch was real. I'm in the ring now.