Round 4: Kayla Croft vs. Preston Andrews

Pain left him near blinded, his face recoiling away from her fist, gritting his teeth and baring through the sharp sting. Blood began to glob from his nose, painting his face a dark, sickly color. Hell no, he wouldn't just tap the fuck out. Preston had died before in these fucking tournaments before. He wouldn't give her, or anyone, the satisfaction of that cowardly bull now. "Fuck... you..." He hissed, pushing her up and away with one hand, trying to break some sort of distance between them and loosen her grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his glaive laying there, reaching for it with one hand. Slowly, inch by inch, the weapon came for him, dragging itself across the rough ground. If he could just get it in his grasp, he could end this...

Kayla panted as he pressed his hand up against her chest, pushing closer against him. Don't fall off. Don't fall off. Don't fall off. She leaned in, as best she could with him shoving her away, and wrapped her hands around his throat, gritting her teeth in a feral snarl. Squeeze. Just keep squeezing until it all stopped. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die. She didn't look at his outstretched hand, reaching for the polearm, or at anything else except his face, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Die! Die! Die!