After Jerome got wrecked, the atmosphere in the pit shifted.
The next fighter dropped in, took one look at me still standing in the center, and raised both hands.
No fight. No posturing. He didn't even bother with the formality of assuming a stance first.
"I yield," he announced with pride, as if he had declared himself the smartest man alive for surrendering.
I couldn't blame him. Anyone with common sense wouldn't dare come close to me.
The crowd didn't know how to react. A few people booed. Someone threw a cup.
The announcer cleared his throat and turned toward me. I allowed the surrender.
The crowd erupted more in anger, but when I turned to face them, their voices died, and every mouth snapped shut.
Next one came down the entrance ramp, got halfway to the center, looked at Jerome's outline still pressed into the far wall like a chalk drawing, and stopped walking.
He turned to the announcer.
"Can I — is there a form for this? For quitting?"
