Bryce panicked. Desperate to maintain his image on camera, he lunged forward, throwing a wildly aggressive overhand right aimed at Garrett’s jaw.
Garrett didn't flinch. He didn't block. He simply wasn't there. With a micro-movement that defied his size, Garrett slipped the punch.
Garrett didn't fight out of anger. Anger makes a man sloppy. Garrett fought with cold, absolute, surgical precision. He didn't throw a punch; he executed a takedown so fast the cameras barely caught it. He stepped into Bryce’s guard, swept his pivot leg, and drove his palm into Bryce’s chest. Bryce hit the mat so hard the floorboards groaned.
Bryce scrambled up, gasping for air, throwing a frantic flurry of kicks and punches. Garrett casually parried them, swatting away the strikes like a man annoyed by a swarm of gnats. Then, Garrett went to work.