In the blue corner, the energy shifts into something far more urgent. Villanueva sits heavily on the stool, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly as he struggles to pull a full breath back into his lungs.
The damage from those body shots still lingers, buried deep, refusing to fade no matter how hard he tries to steady himself.
"Breathe, Dante. Slow it down. In… out… don't rush it," Mendosa says, one hand firm against his chest, guiding the rhythm while watching him closely.
Another cornerman presses an ice pack against his side, right over the liver. The moment it touches, Villanueva flinches, his body tightening despite himself.
"Stay with it," the man insists. "You need that to calm down."
A third works quickly, wiping the sweat from his face, lifting his chin just enough to check his eyes and keep his focus from slipping.
"Look at me. Don't drift. Stay sharp."
