Joe was still in rhythm, throwing out jab after jab with machine-like precision. Each strike snapped forward with clean form, the subtle twist of the foot, the snap in his shoulder, the recoil of his arm always coming back to guard. There was no break in his technique, no pause in his pace.
The jab wasn't considered the most powerful strike in boxing, but it was often the most important. It controlled distance. It managed timing. It dictated the rhythm of the entire fight.
And right now, Joe owned that rhythm.
As he kept the jabs flowing, a creeping panic began to slither into Bando's mind.
'Is this guy... ever going to get tired? He just keeps throwing punch after punch. What the hell am I supposed to do?'
Joe's relentless pace was doing more than just scoring hits, it was draining Bando's ability to defend. His forearms were going numb, each one buzzing with impact. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to lift them at all soon.
So Bando made a desperate call.
