The enemy was swaying on his feet, too tired to lift his hands, but Brooklyn kept pushing him into a corner. Eight rounds in, he was tired and yet buzzing high on adrenaline and sheer, uncontrollable rage, delivering low punches into the enemy's sides, his solid resistance like a wall he wanted to tear down with his bare hands.

The enemy squirmed under the onslaught, rounded his back and stumbled away, but there were only the ropes, and beyond it, the baying mob.

Brooklyn kept punching, hitting, then noticed that the enemy had lowered his guards to protect himself. He responded to the weakness the only way that made sense to his adrenaline-dazed brain. He took a half step back and delivered a straight punch with the right and a cross with the left. Like in slow motion, the power from that cross tore the man's head to the side, Brooklyn saw a flash of the yellow mouth guard, and then the man went down as if struck by lightning.

No, not yet.

Before anybody could interfere, Brooklyn caught him him by the throat, pushed him up against the ropes and kept punching him. The rage knew no bounds, burning in his veins, turning the exhaustion to ashes, drowning out the shouts from the mob.

The enemy opened his arms, to try and grasp the ropes, but for a moment he was spread open in a T. Unguarded, unprotected, throat bared, head rolling back. Unconscious, dead, or simply KO, that strange stage when every ounce of strength and endurance had been beaten from his body, leaving only leaden indifference—or a readiness to die.

And it was a mercy to be killed on his feet, in the ring.