Trent charged, fanning a left hook and shooting for Big Eli’s waist. He expected the old man to sprawl or panic or stumble backward.
Instead, Big Eli stepped slightly to the diagonal. It was a micro adjustment, barely an inch of movement, but it changed the angle of the entire fight.
As Trent’s shoulder drove into the space where Eli’s center of mass used to be, he found only air. Big Eli’s heavy, calloused hand clamped down on the back of Trent’s neck, pushing his downward momentum exactly where it already wanted to go.
Trent face-planted into the duct-taped mats with a brutal thud.