"Good... Good... Good— Fuck." Rude hits like the Midgar bullet train, screaming fast and hard enough to crunch a lesser man's skull. The only thing that's keeping Tseng on his toes is knowing how to take a hit, how to dodge them, what to do when you see it coming too late. He's a pro at turning momentum against men ten times his weight, but Rude's not just some scrappy mark who got into this gig because he's big and beefy. When he gets like this, Rude's practically a monster.

"Focus, Rude," he hisses, but it's clear that's not breaking through whatever hazey shit is happening in Rude's head right now. Tseng's chin is bleeding down his shirt, lots of spill for how small he suspects the cut is. Either way, they can't afford this. Rude's got to sober up, Tseng has to make an executive decision.

He's pretty sure Rude's actively trying to tag him now. Tseng decides to use that against him. Sure enough, Rude's cutting up and Tseng is there to meet him with a guard, tapping his forearm against Rude's wrist to spin him off. It's the space he needs to throw off one mitt and let it clatter dully to the ground. He knows that if he blocks with one arm, Rude's gonna go for his open side, so he anticipates that too, lifts his leg for a high snapping kick to buy him more time, more space to throw off the remaining pad. Then they're back to start, both squared up and faced off, Tseng tense and ready for whatever Rude wants to pull next.

Funny, he's feeling a little dizzy too. Not because of the air or all the blood he's losing. It's like a pavlovian response to pain when it's Rude dishing it out, a druggie daze that settles over him and makes his guts twist sharply. But dammit, he's holding it together for the sake of the job, Rude can too.

"This is good," he says, taking one slow, methodical step to the side. "Don't lose this. Breathe. Focus."