Baysangur Susurkaev

Sweat dripped from his headgear as he lazily deflected his sparring partner’s shots, his guard held low out of sheer boredom. He flicked out a controlled, almost lazy jab that still managed to snap his opponent’s head back, forcing a defensive shell.

“Keep your hands up and take this seriously!” his coach barked from the octagon door.

Susurkaev sighed, playing with his mouthguard before offering a half-smirk. He raised his lead hand in a feint, then launched a cross. The technique looked sloppy from the start—a poorly thrown power shot with no hip rotation. His gloved fist landed with a dry, sickening pop against his partner’s forearm.

The training partner immediately stepped back, his own gloves coming down. “Hey, man… you good? Tell me your hand’s okay,” he asked, pulling off his headgear, concern etched on his face.

Susurkaev’s coach was already climbing through the ropes, his voice tight. “Go see the doc. You can’t get injured, not now, not right after your debut.”

A private, inward smile flickered within Susurkaev. He winced, exaggerating his pained reactions as he used only one hand to clumsily remove his headgear and let it drop to the mat. He spat his mouthguard out after it.

He exited the octagon, working his glove straps loose with his teeth before letting them, too, fall to the growing pile of gear. He made his way to the medical office, knocked, and was let in by a physician.

“Hey, come in. What happened, Bay?” the doctor asked, ready to triage him.

Susurkaev looked at him, dead serious, and shook his head. His Russian accent thickened around the words. “The doc… she checks me. Only her.”