His knuckles ached, the force of the punch vibrating through him. Raphe’s other fist met a hard chest with a crunch. Giles, but it might as well have been the bowels of hell for all the difference it made. It reeked of filth and the daily struggle to survive. This place was not for the weak or the wealthy. A cheer erupted from those who’d come to witness the fight-a motley selection of hardened individuals. The punch snapped his opponent’s face sideways, producing a spray of spit and blood that painted the air with specks of crimson. Less than a second, and then he sent his fist flying. Beneath them, standing in the middle of the Black Swan courtyard, Raphe Matthews drew back his fist, his muscles bunching tightly together-just long enough for him to assess the angle and speed with which to release all that power. Thick clouds darkened to shades of gray as they rolled across the London sky. And to George Bernard Shaw for offering inspiration
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