As the scorched floor cracked under the last echo of Tyrron's impact, a heavy silence settled over the stadium.
Farah Desh was quickly lifted by medics, conscious but completely incapacitated, her sonic javelins scattered and broken across the platform. Her visor had shattered and her suit was torn, a testament to the sheer force behind Tyrron's rage-fueled punch.
But all eyes weren't on her, they were on him.
Ragnar stood in the crater he had created, his chest heaving, green lightning still dancing across his skin like wild snakes. Steam hissed off his shoulders as he stared down at the ground, fists clenched, every muscle trembling, not with exhaustion, but restraint.
Lysandra watched carefully, one hand resting near her earpiece in case she had to override the match sequence and trigger an emergency lockdown.
Yet… Tyrron exhaled one long and controlled breath.
