She climbs down, turning her attention toward the announcer as he begins introducing her opponent.
The announcer smirks, pacing the center of the ring like a man who's seen blood on these mats one too many times.
"And in the opposite corner...She calls herself the Bombshell with a short fuse—'cause when she hits, it's lights out."
A few cheers erupt from one side of the crowd, loyal fans already on their feet.
"Standing five-foot-nine, weighing in at 168 pounds of raw, chaotic energy...With a record of 19 wins, 17 knockouts, and one highly disputed loss...She's known for putting speed before mercy. Aggression before strategy. Pain before pride."
The crowd grows louder. A few fans bang on the cage as the sound of bass-heavy trap thunders through the speakers.
"Hailing from East St. Louis—she don't talk much, but her fists don't need subtitles. They call her The Wreck, because once she starts, she don't stop. Explosive. Reckless. Dangerous as hell. Give it up for... TANYAAA 'THE WRECK' MORRIIIIISON!"
The lights flash red. Smoke rolls in thick and low. Tanya storms out fast, tossing her hoodie to the floor without breaking stride. She throws a few wild hooks in the air as she approaches the ring, her jaw clenched, gaze locked on Santana like a predator who finally found her prey.
She slides under the ropes and immediately starts pacing—circling the mat like a caged animal itching to snap.
Santana doesn't blink. She doesn't flinch. Just leans against her corner, eyes sharp and unreadable.
The crowd was about to get exactly what they came for.
Blood, violence, and a damn good fight.
Now that both fighters were in the ring the announcer quickly exited as the referee got in. He signals for both fighters to come to the center.
"Alright boxers, Let's clean fight, protect yourselves, and listen to my commands." He says looking at both of them. They give him a nod in understanding having heard the same thing plenty of times.
"Touch gloves."
Santana puts up her gloves giving Tanya no reaction when she touches gloves aggressively.
"The wreck my ass." Santana thinks to herself backing up a bit putting her guard up while the referee moves out of the way.
ROUND ONE
The bell rings sharp and loud—like a gunshot in a silent field—and the crowd responds instantly with a roar that shakes the old foundation of the underground arena.
Tanya comes out hot, exactly like her nickname promised. She throws two fast jabs and a looping right hook. Santana reads it early, ducks under, pivots, and lands a stiff jab to Tanya's ribs that echoes like a whip crack.
"OHHH!" the crowd howls.
Tanya grunts, but comes back swinging. She's relentless, throwing punches in bunches, trying to overwhelm Santana with sheer chaos.
Santana takes a few on the arms, eats a glancing one to the cheekbone, and finally slips the next wild left. She steps in with brutal calm and slams a hook into Tanya's side. Tanya stumbles a step. Santana doesn't chase. She waits.
Measured. Lethal.
By the halfway mark, the round is messy. Tanya is throwing wild, crowd-pleasing combos, but Santana's landing the cleaner, heavier shots. She's cutting the ring off, punishing the body every time Tanya overextends.