"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Black Truffle boxing arena! Things feel a little dull tonight. Give me more applause, more screams-show me how wild you can get!!!"
The host, wearing a top hat, dragged a long microphone cord behind him as he writhed theatrically in the bloodstained ring.
At his prompting, screams and whistles erupted like lava through the dim arena.
"Honestly, I don't like noisy places."
Gordon poked a little finger into his ear. The four exhaust fans around them ran at full power, making the air pressure inside fluctuate.
"Trust me, this is going to be one hell of a show. Batman never disappoints!"
William winked and offered Gordon the popcorn.
After a moment's hesitation, Gordon took a handful.
"Next, please welcome tonight's challenger!"
"He stands six foot six and weighs 250 pounds, with a perfect record of 32 wins in 32 fights, hailing from Gotham's darkest slums! His punches strike like lightning in the night. Every blow makes the air tremble, every dodge sends him slipping through the mist like a shadow!
"Audience, get ready to scream, get ready to roar, because tonight you'll witness his invincible prowess in the ring! Give your warmest applause to the man nicknamed Iron Claw-Dean Blaaaack!"
Amid the screams, the shirtless man lifted the ropes and ducked into the ring, circling it with a sequence of Butterfly Steps.
Hiss-hiss, hiss!
He fired off a dozen jabs in one breath, their dazzling afterimages whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
Unlike William, who cheered excitedly, Gordon looked surprised.
He knew Dean Black. The man had been a professional boxer, but had been barred from sanctioned competition the previous year after testing positive for performance-enhancing drugs.
Dean was a prime example of raw talent. Before his retirement, he had been famous in boxing circles for his terrifying reaction speed and flashy footwork. If the scandal hadn't robbed him of his future, he would have stood a decent chance of winning a heavyweight championship belt.
What kind of underground boxing match was this? Was the competition really this fierce?
Gordon didn't want to admit it, but his heart was racing.
"And our other challenger today is..."
The host introduced another fighter, but it wasn't the young man, Stuart. That came as something of a surprise to William.
The two fighters were already warming up in the ring, shadowboxing as the referee held an arm between them.
"I'm sorry, but you won't be fighting each other..."
The host picked up where he left off.
"That's right. I know who you all want to see..."
He bent forward, his eyes wide as he surveyed the arena, which had fallen silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen, light up tonight's spotlights with your screams!"
"Next up, from the shadows of Gotham's Port, standing six foot two and weighing 190 pounds, a warrior who has never tasted defeat! His record in this ring now stands at 69 wins in 69 fights, every bout as earth-shaking as thunder! Let's welcome
"-Stuart, the Forgotten One!!!!!!!!!!"
As the DJ's distorted bass throbbed, the fog machine sprayed white mist.
Stuart emerged from a corner.
The gloves hanging around his neck reflected a crimson glow. His gaze was cold and silent. There were no theatrical expressions, no exaggerated gestures. He simply waved, then crouched in a corner and began warming up.
Yet that perfunctory gesture alone sent the entire arena into a deafening uproar.
Even William's popcorn was knocked from his hands, scattering across the floor and crunching underfoot.
Next came the two fighters' chance to talk trash.
"If Wolf hadn't paid me a fortune, I wouldn't have come to fight this two-on-one match!"
Dean snatched the microphone, his snorting breath making it buzz.
"This kid only has a perfect record because everyone he's fought was weak! Trash! Tonight, I'll tear him apart and grind him down, and show you what that so-called hero of yours is really worth!!!"
Clutching the microphone, he slashed it across his throat.
"Stuart's in trouble."
Gordon tugged at William's sleeve.
"This guy's a professional boxer. Like he said, amateur and professional boxing are on completely different levels, and this is two against one. I suggest we call it off. Whether he wins or loses has nothing to do with our operation."
"Oh, Mr. Gordon! When are you going to stop worrying over nothing?"
While the two were still talking, the bell rang.
The two boxers closed in from either side. Stuart held his rear hand in front of his chin, his lead hand guarding his abdomen as he raised his shoulder.
It was the classic Philly Shell, the signature technique of boxing king Mayweather.
Dean was already moving.
His feet bounced like springs, and he surged forward, almost gliding across the canvas. His left jab shot straight toward Stuart's face-so fast it was little more than a white blur!
The burly man on the other side advanced at the same time, a moving wall that sealed off every avenue of retreat.
The underground arena erupted.
"Hit him! Kill him!!!"
"Tear him apart with your fists!!!"
The crowd hammered madly on the railings and tabletops. The atmosphere hit fever pitch the instant the fight began, beer foam and banknotes flying through the air.
But Stuart didn't move. He merely tilted his head slightly.
The fist skimmed past his ear.
The next second.
Smack.
A crisp sound cracked through the arena.
Dean's jab was casually brushed aside, the young man's movement as light as dusting lint from the shoulder of a suit. He slipped the other burly man's hook with a bob of his head.
Gordon's pupils contracted sharply.
While everyone else watched the flying fists, his gaze dropped to the canvas.
He realized Stuart hadn't even lifted a foot to take a single step.
And that was with two opponents attacking him at once, one of them a professional.
But Gordon didn't understand. The young man seemed intent on doing nothing but defending.
Three minutes passed quickly. The two attackers retreated to their corners, panting, while Stuart merely rolled his neck. He even declined the attendant's offer to massage his shoulders.
He walked to the edge of the ring, accepted a pen and paper from a young woman's outstretched hand, and signed an autograph.
"Fuck, this kid's a monster. I've never faced anyone this terrifying, even in professional bouts! I swear he must be on something!"
Dean whispered to his partner during the break.
"Doesn't matter. We've already got the money! Even if he knocks us out with one punch in the third round, we still come out ahead!"
His partner seemed unbothered, spitting his sports drink into a metal bucket.
"No way. After all that shit I talked before the fight, I'll be a laughingstock if he drops me with one punch."
"So what do you want to do?"
"Remember? Wolf said he'd only block and dodge for the first two rounds. Get in there and grab him. Before the ref separates you, let me land a couple of hard punches. Ideally, I'll knock him out!"
"Is that really necessary?"
"What are you afraid of? The money's already in our pockets. Besides, with that arrogant look in his eyes, don't you want to teach this little punk a lesson?"
The bell rang. Dean rose amid the shouts, rotating his arms.
"We fought our way through the professional circuit. Don't embarrass yourself!"
As the surrounding spectators egged them on with cheers, even the previously easygoing boxer felt his fighting spirit ignite.
He flung the towel draped over his shoulder behind him.
"Fuck!"
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