Back in the stadium, the air seemed still.
It wasn't silence. It was anticipation—cranked to the point of static. Every eye was fixed on the stage, as if blinking might be a tactical error.
The announcer's voice came through the speakers with a rehearsed calm that couldn't quite mask the undercurrent of excitement.
"If both sides are ready…" he began, pausing just long enough to draw it out, "you may begin at the sound of the horn."
William stood firm.
His stance was solid—left leg slightly behind, knees bent, fists raised in the standard defensive posture. Not flashy. Just efficient. His breathing was quiet, measured through his nose, and his gaze stayed locked on Don's chest—not his face. Always the chest. It gave away more.
Don?
Still relaxed. Arms loose. Shoulders down. Like someone waiting in line for coffee, not a fistfight in front of millions.
One foot shifted slightly—barely more than a twitch—but enough for those who were watching closely to know he was ready.
