Audrey's fists tighten in her lap.
"She's hurting," she whispers. "She's compensating already."
ROUND TWO
Her opponent comes in aggressive this time, trying to catch her off guard — haymakers aimed high, looking for the knockout.
Santana ducks the first, blocks the second, then drives her shoulder into the woman's chest and rocks her with a left uppercut that snaps her head back. The crowd roars.
Audrey flinches.
She sees it now — how Santana favors the left. How she lands with it more, uses the right only when she has to. Every time she connects with that wrapped hand, it's with controlled restraint.
But the pain is still there. Written in the subtle tension around her mouth. In the way her shoulders shift after a right hook.
Round two ends with Santana landing a body shot that folds the other woman in half. The bell saves her.
Audrey exhales. Barely.
"Jesus," Nicole mutters, grinning. "She fights like a f**king villain."
Audrey doesn't smile. "She's going to tear the ligaments in her hand. That's not just pain — that's damage."
ROUND THREE
It's more of the same — Santana pressing forward, eating punches without flinching, delivering her own like death sentences. Her opponent manages to land a glancing blow to her temple, but Santana only blinks and fires back harder.
A clean cross lands. Blood bursts from the woman's mouth.
Audrey watches Santana shake her hand once, fast and low, hoping no one notices.
But Audrey does.
She sees everything.
Round four, five — the crowd gets louder, drunker. Santana is still silent. Still sharp. Her opponent? Gassing out. Wobbling on her feet.
Audrey rises halfway from her chair.
Then round six begins.
Santana doesn't wait this time.
She moves like a blade.
Left hook. Right straight. Body shot. Feint. Uppercut. The other woman tries to clinch, and Santana shoves her off, then cracks her jaw with a short right that sends spit flying.
The woman staggers back.
Santana follows.
Left to the ribs. Right to the nose. Left again. Right again. The wrap on her hand is soaked red now, the tape glistening. But her eyes are locked in.
She sees the end.
One last punch — a straight left that lands clean on the chin — and her opponent drops.
Flat.
Referee dives in.
"THAT'S IT!"
It's over.
The warehouse erupts. People scream. Some jump to their feet, others throw fists in the air. But Santana doesn't raise her arms. Doesn't celebrate.
She just breathes. Deep. Controlled.
Audrey watches her unwrap the ropes with one hand and slip down the steps like she's done this a hundred times before.
Because she has.
And still she's walking away with her hand shaking.
Audrey gets up shaking her head, grabs her phone and rushes after her.