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“Don’t thank me yet.” Victor grabs my right hand and begins the process again. The white tape rolls off the spool with a sharp, tearing sound. “You’ve still got five rounds to survive.”

He wraps my right hand with the same intense focus. We sit in the quiet gym, two men who built a family out of broken parts and discarded ambition. He finishes the wrap, slaps the back of my hand, and pushes the metal chair away.

“Let’s run through the game plan one more time,” Victor instructs.

He walks over to the equipment rack and pulls down a pair of worn leather focus mitts. He straps the heavy pads onto his hands, securing the Velcro strips around his wrists. He walks to the center of the training mat and assumes a fighting stance.

I hop down from the ring apron. I roll my shoulders, working the stiffness out of my joints. The severe dehydration from the weigh-in is gone. The fluids and meals I consumed since yesterday morning flood my muscles with explosive energy. My body hums. The engine is rebuilt and ready to run hot.

I step onto the mat.

“Show me the slip.” Victor holds the right mitt up.

I drop my chin. I tuck my elbows tight against my ribs. I fire a sharp left jab to gauge the distance. The wrapped knuckles pop against the leather. Victor throws a wide right hook, mimicking Zane’s signature counter. I drop my level, slipping under the heavy arm, and pivot hard on my back foot. I drive a devastating right cross directly into the center of the pad.

The impact echoes off the high corrugated ceiling.

“Good.” Victor steps back, resetting the angle. “He leaves that chin high when he presses forward. He thinks his reach protects him. You get inside. You stay inside. You do not let him breathe.”

“Understood.”

“Do it again.”

We drill the combinations. The physical exertion forces the lingering anxiety out of my system. My blood pumps a fast, steady rhythm. Sweat breaks across my forehead, cooling my skin in the humid air of the gym.

I visualize the fight. I picture the tall, imposing frame of the Ironside champion standing across the octagon. I picture the amber eyes that stared at me with pure devotion just a few hours ago.

Zane demanded a war. He told me not to hold back.

If I pull a single punch tonight, I give him less than he deserves. I have to hit him with the intention to end the bout. I have to look past the man I love and target the dominant fighter standing in my path.

“Double jab, cross, body hook,” Victor barks.

I launch forward. I fire the twin jabs, snapping the punches out to blind the opponent. I follow with a straight right hand, shifting my weight perfectly. I drop my left shoulder and dig a brutal hook into the lower pad, simulating a liver strike.

The heavy leather groans under the force.

“Keep your right hand up when you throw that hook.” Victor taps the side of my jaw with the edge of the mitt. “He has a devastating right elbow. He catches you clean, you wake up in the locker room.”

“He won’t catch me.”

“He caught you in the fifth round last time.” Victor reminds me of the brutal reality. He holds the pads up again. “Don’t get cocky. Cocky fighters get put on stretchers. Stay sharp. Stay hungry. Go.”

I run the drill again. I keep my guard glued to my cheekbone while ripping the hook into the body pad.

We work for twenty solid minutes. The repetitive violence grounds me completely. The outside world ceases to exist. The media circus, the inevitable public backlash, the blinding flashbulbs of the paparazzi—none of it matters inside the ropes. The cage demands absolute honesty. You can’t fake a knockout. You can’t lie your way out of a submission hold.

“Time.” Victor drops his arms. He pulls the Velcro straps loose and tosses the mitts onto the mat.

My chest heaves. I take a few deep breaths. The adrenaline floods my system, leaving a tingling sensation buzzing in my fingertips.

Eli appears in the doorway of the front office.

He leans against the doorframe. He wears his standard dark track jacket and a pair of athletic pants. The silver whistle hangs from a black lanyard around his neck. His deep green eyes scan the room, absorbing the remnants of the training session. He looks as calm as ever. I envy the hell out of him.

“Car’s here,” Eli announces. His voice carries easily across the empty gym floor. “Time to go.”

The final countdown starts now.