At the four-minute mark, the Boxer overextended. Viktor stepped inside the guard, a blur of motion. One strike to the solar plexus, one to the jaw. The Boxer folded. Four left.
The Grappler lunged, trying to take the fight to the floor, but Viktor caught him in a clinch, using the man as a human shield against the brothers' strikes. With a sharp twist, he sent the Grappler into the corner post. At the four-minute mark, the Boxer overextended
The Ghost lunged. Viktor didn't retreat; he met the blade halfway. He caught the attacker’s wrist in a lock that sounded like dry wood snapping. The knife clattered to the floor. The Boxer folded
Now it was personal. The brothers charged together, a wall of muscle. Viktor dropped low, swept the legs of the first, and used the falling body as a stepping stone to launch a flying knee into the second. With a sharp twist, he sent the Grappler
Finally, there was only The Ghost. He was fresh, having waited for his moment. He pulled a concealed blade—a violation of the Red Circle rules. The crowd gasped, but the referee, paid off by the house, looked away.
Viktor stood in the center of the ring, his knuckles taped, his breathing slow. He wasn't a giant, but he moved with the economical grace of a man who had spent a decade in the shadows. Tonight’s contract was "Five Against One."
For the first three minutes, Viktor didn't strike. He danced. He used the brothers' momentum against each other, staying on the periphery, making the Five trip over their own shadows. He was "buying time," letting the adrenaline dump wear them out.