Jimmy Powers flexes in red Adidas gloves, knuckles wrapped tight as he shifts into a fighter’s stance, one hand raised, the other gripping the strap like it’s the only thing holding him back. The tattoos on his forearms ripple under the weight of the gloves, his dark hair falling just enough to hide the sweat that’ll track down his neck when he starts moving. The shorts ride low, the fabric stretched over his thighs as he crouches, elbows out, ready to throw a punch that won’t come. Every frame locks him in the moment before the first swing.
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