Counterpunch

His opponent, a mountain of a man named Viktor, threw a haymaker that could have decapitated a bull. Elias didn’t flinch. He slipped the punch by a fraction of an inch, the wind of the glove whistling past his ear. In that heartbeat of overextension, Elias saw it: the opening.

He didn't just punch back; he countered . It was a fluid motion—a dip of the shoulder and a short, explosive hook that caught Viktor right on the chin. The big man’s legs turned to jelly. Counterpunch

"You spent so much energy trying to knock us down," Elias said calmly, leaning against the ropes. "You forgot to keep your guard up." His opponent, a mountain of a man named

Elias didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He just handed Vane a small, manila envelope. "What's this? A bribe?" Vane laughed, tearing it open. In that heartbeat of overextension, Elias saw it:

"That’s the thing about a counterpunch," Elias’s trainer, Pops, whispered from the corner. "It’s not about being stronger. It’s about letting the other guy’s momentum do the work for you."

"Time to pack up, Ghost," Vane sneered. "The momentum is all mine."