Instead, Martin slowly straightened. The stoop in his shoulders vanished. The arthritic shuffle evaporated. He squared his stance, his feet shifting perfectly into the most balanced, unbreakable defensive posture Eddie Thompson had seen in twenty years. Something deadly and ancient flickered in Martin’s weathered eyes.
"I accept," Martin said quietly.
Tyler laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. He rolled his shoulders, planted his feet, and threw a devastating right hook. It wasn't a warning shot. It was a punch meant to shatter a jaw, thrown with all the weight and torque of a 24-year-old professional in his prime.
But Martin wasn't there.
In a fraction of a second, muscle memory overrode arthritis. Martin slipped outside the punch with terrifying, liquid grace. The haymaker tore through empty air, throwing Tyler off balance. Before Tyler could recover, Martin pivoted.
He didn't strike. He didn't need to.
Martin’s right hand whipped out and stopped exactly one millimeter from Tyler's exposed liver, while his left hand checked Tyler’s shoulder, completely paralyzing the younger fighter's momentum. The positioning was flawless. Had Martin closed his fist and followed through, Tyler's ribs would have shattered, and his organs would have failed.
Tyler froze, breathing heavily, completely neutralized. He looked down at the old man's trembling, weathered fist hovering over his liver, realizing how incredibly close he had just come to ending his career.
Amanda's phone dropped a fraction of an inch. Jake and Dany stood completely utterly paralyzed.
"Three minutes and a ring isn't a playground, son," Martin whispered, his voice steady, his eyes locked onto Tyler's terrified pupils. "It's a courtroom. And out here, you just lost your case."