Damon stood at the edge of the cage, arms folded, eyes sharp.
Zulu was chaos, no doubt. But chaos wasn't always bad.
Damon had studied plenty of fighters who leaned on awkward timing and unpredictable movements.
Fighters who broke rhythm, who used their "wrongness" as a weapon. It worked when it was calculated.
PDD was one of those. He looked messy, but there was structure buried deep in that wildness.
A rhythm to the madness. He moved like he didn't know what he was doing, but everything landed where it needed to.
Zulu wasn't PDD.
At first glance, it was the same brand of pressure and power. Wild angles, switch stance flurries, head movement that didn't belong to any textbook. But the more Damon watched, the more cracks he saw.
Zulu wanted to be chaos. But he wasn't in control of it.
He moved with confidence, sure, but confidence didn't mean correctness.
Damon muttered under his breath, eyes never leaving the cage. "He knows what he's doing... but he's doing it wrong."
