Victor did not move like a man testing an opponent. He moved like someone correcting an error.
Lucan saw the shift in his shoulders first. No wasted motion. No warning. Victor crossed the distance with that same terrifying compression of space, not teleportation, not speed exactly, something uglier than both, and Lucan had barely enough time to turn before Victor's fist drove into his ribs with enough force to fold him sideways.
The sound that came out of Lucan's body was not a grunt. It was air leaving under compulsion.
He hit the dirt on one knee, hand catching himself, blood already wetting the corner of his mouth again.
Victor did not rush him.
That was worse.
He stood there with his breathing perfectly controlled, one hand loose at his side, the other flexing once before going still again. His gaze stayed on Lucan's face with a cold, narrowed focus that made the yard feel smaller around them.
Around the ring, no one spoke.
