The bell ends the round just as Santana catches Tanya with a short left uppercut under the chin—enough to make her knees dip.
"She wobbled!" someone screams from the crowd.
IN-BETWEEN ROUND ONE
Tanya staggers back to her corner, breathing hard. Her coach immediately grabs her mouthpiece, fans her with a towel, gives her water, and starts barking instructions.
"Stop headhunting! She's baiting you! Go to the body!"
Across the ring, Santana walks to her corner—alone.
She sits on the stool she dragged in herself. No water. No one to tend to the red welt forming above her right brow. Just her, breathing evenly through her nose, eyes on Tanya.
She doesn't need a pep talk. She's already dissecting Tanya's rhythm, remembering how her right shoulder twitches before every left.
The crowd buzzes with energy, and people in the front rows yell to each other over the noise.
"Yo, Reaper came to kill tonight!"
"Did you see that uppercut? I felt that shit in my soul!"
ROUND TWO
Tanya comes out a little slower, respect now riding her movements—but still aggressive.
They trade early. Tanya lands a hard right to the jaw. Santana absorbs it and answers with a three-punch combo—left hook to the liver, right cross to the mouth, then another shot to the ribs.
Tanya lets out a low, involuntary grunt and clinches. The ref separates them.
The next exchange, Tanya throws a slick uppercut, finally catching Santana clean under the chin. The crowd gasps. Santana stumbles back two steps. First real hit she's eaten tonight.
Tanya rushes in.
Bad idea.
Santana plants her feet and counters with a devastating right cross. Blood sprays from Tanya's nose. The crowd explodes.
"LET'S GOOOO!"
They brawl for the last thirty seconds, both trading violent, bruising shots. Santana's mouth is bleeding now, her lip split again. Tanya's nose is broken, leaking steady red.
The bell rings—and they stare at each other for a long second before backing up.
IN-BETWEEN ROUND TWO
Tanya collapses onto her stool. Her corner works fast—stuffing gauze up her nose, icing her jaw.
"You gotta move your damn feet!" her trainer yells, slapping her thigh. "You give her a second to think, and she'll take your head off!"
Tanya spits blood into a bucket.
Meanwhile, Santana wipes her mouth with her forearm. No one in her corner to stitch her lip or offer words. She leans on the ropes, head down for a moment, then slowly rises.
The lights feel hotter. The room is getting louder. A chant begins—low at first, then growing:
"Rea-per! Rea-per! Rea-per!"
ROUND THREE
Tanya changes her tactics. She starts circling, using more footwork, throwing feints.
Santana waits. Then when Tanya lunges, Santana ducks, steps inside, and unleashes hell.
A vicious flurry—right to the jaw, left hook to the ribs, overhand right to the temple.