Trent was on his feet now, pacing the ring, his pride bruised far worse than his body. "You just laid on me!" he yelled across the bar. "That wasn't a fight! You didn't even throw a punch!"
The crowd, however, had shifted. Mechanics and farmhands were chuckling, exchanging impressed glances. They knew exactly what they had just witnessed.
Big Eli paused at the heavy wooden doors. He turned back, his empty eyes resting on the young fighter for a brief, quiet moment. He didn't gloat. He didn't offer advice. He just looked at him with that same profound exhaustion.
He pushed the doors open, stepping out into the thick, humid July night. The deafening roar of the cicadas welcomed him back. The air was still, heavy with the promise of a late-summer thunderstorm.