The triangle was locked, and Balim wasn't giving an inch. His body shifted subtly, angle adjusting again, just enough to tighten the choke without wasting energy. His hands pulled PDD's trapped arm tighter across his body while his hips stayed elevated. It was surgical.
PDD gritted his teeth. His legs stomped against the canvas for balance. He was resisting, but his movements were growing sluggish.
The champ wasn't one to panic. His style was unorthodox, unpredictable. But this was pure control. A vice closing around his neck.
He tried to posture again, lifting, stacking, but the blood was already slowing. His free hand dug into Balim's ribs. He shook his head like he was trying to will his way out. But there was no space.
From the side, the strain was clear in PDD's face. Veins pushing against skin. His jaw clenched tight. He tried one more desperate pull of his arm, but Balim only tightened the grip.
The crowd saw it now. The fight was slipping.
