This time, Peter charged in. His fists were up, elbows in, head low—classic boxer's guard. He moved fast, looking to land the first clean hit.
He threw a jab, faked a move, then swung a hook at the ribs. His form was good, but his goal was sharper—Peter wanted to win, not show off.
Luck let the punch graze his shirt, then pivoted, catching a flash of Geo's approach in his periphery.
Now they were coming at him together.
"Good strat," He grinned, the smallest sliver of tooth behind the balaclava. It was a textbook move—overwhelm, then isolate.
Geo's foot snapped toward his knee, while Peter swung high with another hook.
Luck stepped in, crowding Peter and redirecting his momentum—just enough for the two to crash into each other.
Peter grunted as his shoulder clipped Geo's chest. The two stumbled, feet tangling for half a second before they each broke off, breathing harder than before.
Luck didn't chase. He stood still, letting them reset, eyes calm behind the goggles.
