Tomás Ferreira Vs Cleo Hulbury - The Hit Job

[GoingBananas]

She had been pressing him relentlessly. Pushing him back inch by inch, with confident footwork and striking poise, her intentions were clear. She wanted the edge. Wanted to control the ring, drive him toward the boundary where her dominance could be cemented with a clean slam or hold. It was a smart strategy, one he could respect. But Tomás was no stranger to being hunted into corners. And this corner, she wouldn’t claim so easily.

Her swiping kick came high, fast, and meant to end things in one flourish—an elegant scythe of a limb meant to take his head off at the neck. But he had seen it coming. Or rather, he had made her want to throw it. Every half-step backwards, every subtle tilt of his head, all designed to invite exactly that kind of overreach. She took the bait.

He ducked low, gliding beneath the arc of her leg, and slid in close—close enough to see the snap of tension along her abdomen as she pivoted. His body turned with hers, one arm wrapping inward, and with a sharp pivot of his hip, his elbow drove up and in—a technique that didn’t rely on brute force but instead the violence of torque.

The impact was clean. He felt it land. The sharp grunt she gave in response was involuntary, and the way she was forced back told him everything he needed to know: the blow had landed in just the right place. But he didn’t chase her. Not yet. He watched as she twisted through the air, hands bracing elegantly against the mat, her athleticism undeniable. Her recovery was sharp, and when she landed on her feet, even in pain, she looked just as poised as ever. Still dangerous. Still measured. Her hand clutched her side, her lips curling into that hiss of defiance—and there it was again: control. Even wounded, she wouldn’t show weakness. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Tomás straightened slowly, the rhythm of his breathing steadying as he rolled his shoulders, not in arrogance, but to reset. This was a fight, not a brawl. And now that the tempo had changed, he had to respect the shift. She was backing off now, defensive. Reassessing. That meant opportunity—but also danger. He advanced with care, his feet placing each step with the quiet certainty of a craftsman. No wasted motion. Arms loose, elbows angled downward in a tight Thai guard. His knees remained slightly bent, ready to rise, pivot, or check. He didn’t rush—he let the rhythm change breathe between them. A soft feint—a twitch of the shoulder, a flick of the lead hand—not to draw a strike, but to test her read.

[Bare]

Damn. Cleo was close to taking total control of the match there if she could have just managed to force Tomas out of the ring to enact the penalty. Instead the damned man had managed to see through her offense and land a punishing blow in turn, forcing her to back off in one go! 'Great this is going to be more annoying than I thought.' Cleo thought to herself with a glare towards Tomas, watching as the man set his shoulders back and put his fists up in preparation for the next round of fighting between them.

Narrowing her gaze at this Cleo would do the same, walking closer in towards Tomas as she watched him flick his fist outward, but despite the provocation she barely reacted, just moving slightly out of the way. In turn however Cleo would dart in just after ward, raising her fists suddenly and throwing a quick three jab combination at his arms, trying to get his focus up high so that she could swing her leg up, trying to deliver a swift, targeted knee strike right into his liver!

[GoingBananas]

She was pissed. Tomás could see it in the set of her jaw, the narrowed slits of her eyes, the subtle tick in her brow as she closed the space between them. She was still composed—disciplined—but the shift in her posture spoke volumes. That brief exchange had flipped something, made her reassess. He could all but hear the recalculations happening in real time behind her eyes, and that kind of awareness made Cleo all the more dangerous. She was adapting, and quickly.

Good. He didn’t want an easy fight.

As she moved in, her footwork sharp and measured, Tomás flicked a loose jab—not meant to land, but to prod, to test. A feint designed to lure out a reaction. Cleo barely gave him that satisfaction, slipping aside like she was brushing off an afterthought. And then, she was on him. Her fists came up in a sudden burst—one, two, three—snapping against his raised forearms with crisp precision. He absorbed the blows, but that wasn’t the point; he could feel how she was dictating tempo, stacking pressure. She wanted his guard high.

Which made him realize—too late—what she was setting up.

Her knee came surging in from below, tight and surgical, aimed with punishing intent at his liver. A classic Muay Thai setup, and a damned good one. The sharp explosion of pain was immediate, a white-hot shock radiating out from the strike zone that nearly folded him in half. His breath caught in his chest—held hostage—as he staggered backward with a hiss, turning slightly off-axis to mitigate the impact. It didn’t drop him, but it rattled him. More than he’d admit.

Tomás gritted his teeth and regrouped, bare feet scuffing the mat as he took a slow, defensive step back. She’d landed clean, and that meant she was reading him too well. Fine. He adjusted his stance, more narrow now, elbows closer to the ribs.

[Bare]

Cleo was forced to play this more carefully now. Tomas had made her realize how she was being too loose and careless as such she needed to be more focused and keep her offense tighter against the mat. After all he wasn't the only one capable of adapting and changing a game plan. Thankfully it seemed her new strategy was yielding some positive results with her flurry of jabs getting Tomas's guard up high and leaving him vulnerable to a punishing knee strike that left him reeling backwards Noticing the way his guard went to his ribs Cleo would smirk as she pushed forward the moment both her feet were back on the mat.

Rushing in to close the distance between herself and her opponent Cleo would swing her right leg up in the direction of the man's ribs, seemingly going for a standard roundhouse kick. But that wouldn't be the case. At the last moment where he'd ready his guard or better yet try and grab her leg, Cleo would instead pull it back, rotating her hips as she moved her leg further to one side... Before springing it forward at a high angle, looking to bypass his guard and deliver a sharp thrust kick directly into the man's jaw!

Should this tricky kick manage to land successfully on the man and force him back a step while lowering his guard then Cleo would lean forward with her momentum, bringing her hands under her to catch herself rolling through to bring her her feet under her, spinning on her heels and standing up while lifting her leg once more and bringing it around to try and finish her combination with a spinning back kick directed right at Tomas's hurting stomach!

[GoingBananas]

Tomás sensed a change—not only in her fighting style, but in her entire demeanor. Cleo was now doing more than simply attacking; Her discipline had tightened, and her focus was like a spotlight: fixed entirely on his movements, exploiting each moment of hesitation.

The trio of jabs had done their job, forcing his guard high to protect his temple, his cheek, his chin. He saw the knee coming too late, tucked so naturally behind the distraction. It buried itself in his ribs with brutal accuracy; the pain radiating in sharp lines beneath the skin. His elbow dropped reflexively, arm hugging his side as he staggered back to reclaim footing.

But she was already on him. Her next motion was clean, mechanical in its grace—a right leg rising again, the telltale trajectory of a textbook roundhouse. He prepared shifting his stance low and strong, hands tightening to either intercept or catch the limb. And then—deception. It never came. At least, not the way he’d read it.

Her hip twisted sharply, the arc of her kick drawing inward like a whip being coiled, before springing back out with terrifying speed. It was clever—disguised perfectly, re-angled mid-flight with the athleticism he hadn’t fully credited her with. The thrust came high, veering over his lowered guard.

It cracked him across the jaw.

His vision flared white, the impact sending a jolt down his spine and robbing him of balance. His back foot skidded against the mat as he staggered two steps—nearly dropping. But he didn’t fall. His body, trained for these moments, instinctively caught itself, shoulders rounding in, one knee touching the floor before he launched back up.

He blinked, the world pulsing. But even through the haze, he saw her—already spinning, building momentum. A blur of movement, the sweep of her heel arcing around in a clean back kick, targeting the same ribs she’d softened just seconds before. No time to counter. No clean way to escape.

So he ate it.

Tomás twisted his torso at the last second, just enough to distribute the force across his side instead of directly into his centerline. The impact still hit like a stone—driving the air from his lungs, knocking the wind out with a rasping exhale—but it didn’t drop him. Instead, he pivoted with the momentum, letting it turn him into a wider stance, arms raised again despite the ache blooming in his ribs.

He didn’t retaliate, not yet. He breathed, shallow and controlled, and watched her reset with that same razor's edge grace.

[Bare]

Safe to say that Cleo was taking this fight a bit more seriously now, changing her style up as she saw necessary to catch this man by surprise and do some hard damage to the man before he could re calibrate and try to fight back. Luckily this seemed to have the desired effect, pushing him back to the edge and leaving him seemingly shook.

Even that last kick of hers had managed to connect dead on, thought it seemed as if Tomas had managed to at least brace himself expectantly for the attack causing Cleo to roll her eyes but hey, he at least took damage and was forced back so she'd take it. Returning her leg down to the mat and resetting Cleo wouldn't waste more than a second dashing in again, eyes focused on his form, watching him as he assumed a wider stance.

Perfect. Keeping her arms firmly to her sides and hands open as she approached it would appear as if she would go for a lock up of some kind maybe to bridge, or perhaps exchange upper body shots?

In reality at the last possible second Cleo would lift her leg, maybe making Tomas think she was going for another feint and kick combination, but instead Cleo would lift her other leg up in a small jump, aiming to intertwine them both around Tomas's leg before using her falling momentum and twist of her hips to take his leg out beneath him and send him crashing face first into the mat with a drop toe hold!

Should this have managed to connect then Cleo would extend her hands out under her to catch herself, pulling her legs from Tomas's and suddenly rolling over him. Now normally when this was done Cleo, along with many other wrestlers would usually go for a modified head scissor or a leg targeting submission of some kind. But such tactics were banned in this particular match.. so what was Cleo up to?

Well... as she neared his head Cleo would plant her hands on the mat once more pushing herself up at a off angle handstand before bringing her leg around and bringing it down as her body fell, trying to drive the back of her heel right into the back of her opponent's head with a axe kick!

[GoingBananas]

The fight had a new rhythm. Tomás sensed it—not only in Cleo’s footwork and the rhythm of her strikes, but also in the intense concentration in her eyes. The playful act and teasing swagger she’d affected earlier were gone. This was tactical now. Determined. She methodically deconstructed his position, seeking to corner him, undermine his confidence, and keep him responding instead of initiating.

And for a moment, it was working.

The last kick had landed harder than he cared to admit, her heel biting into his side just above the hipbone. He’d rolled with it, tensed just in time to avoid the worst of it, but pain still radiated from the point of impact like fire licking across his obliques. It pushed him backward, close to the ropes, but not through them. His guard stayed high, stance widened now for stability. Breath came through his nose in a long exhale, eyes narrowed, locked onto Cleo as she rushed in again. No wasted motion.

Her approach was tight, arms in close, hands open. Classic feint posture. He braced for a grapple, maybe a shoulder lock-up or a sneaky inside elbow. He was ready to clinch if she gave him a neck to reach for. Then her leg twitched. His body tensed. Another kick? No—something was off. By the time realization hit, she was already in the air.

Her legs coiled around his—no, under—and suddenly he felt the balance slip from under him, his heel wrenched out from the mat in a blur of motion. The world flipped. His hands were already moving to catch himself as he fell, but there was no grace in this descent—just hard canvas and a stinging jolt through his collarbone as he hit face-first. Pain flared across his forehead and nose. His jaw rattled with the force of it.

And then it came.

He had only just registered the weight leaving her legs when he felt her presence above him again. A shadow stretched over his back, and instinct told him to move—but instinct was too slow. Her heel came crashing down from above in a ruthless, precise arc.

The impact exploded against the back of his skull with brutal finality. A blinding shock radiated down his spine, his face grinding harder into the mat from the follow-through. His body slackened for an instant—senses spiraling, ears ringing, vision stuttering. Darkness threatened to surge in at the edges, but it didn’t take him fully. Not yet.

[Bare]

Cleo smirked softly as she held herself up with her hands after delivering her axe kick right to the back of Tomas's head. Slowly pushing herself up into a standing position Cleo would insure that her foot remained right where it was planted on Tomas's head so that when she was in a fully vertical base she would hold her hand up into the air, posing for the crowd and flaunting her position of dominance over the man for all to see.

After a moment of her self glorification Cleo would then lower her hand and shift her foot, removing it from the top of the man's head and proceeding to slide it under his jaw and starting to lift up, gradually aiming to lift the man up. He was still conscious, so he'd move up with her guidance, she was sure of it. Once he was up to a near standing position then Cleo would drop her leg... Before turning suddenly and lifting her leg up to unleash a devastating spinning back heel kick!

Spoiler

[GoingBananas]

The mat felt cold against his skin, more so than it had earlier in the match, as though the impact of Cleo’s axe kick had driven him deeper into its fibers. His body throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse where her heel had landed at the back of his skull, but consciousness never quite let go. The pain grounded him. Reminded him. His muscles twitched in response to the insult of her foot staying there, perched atop his head like a flag planted in victory. And the crowd? Their roar blurred into a single, pulsing sound in his ears. Not humiliation. Not yet. But close.

He didn’t rise when she did, not willingly. He let her foot press beneath his chin, allowed it to guide him upward, not out of obedience, but calculation. Every inch he ascended was met with deliberate resistance—a coiled spring winding tighter with each push. His legs trembled as he stood, less from the blow and more from the restraint it took not to lash out prematurely. Her balance would be off. Her foot would be planted awkwardly. But he knew Cleo wouldn’t let him have an opening so easily. She was setting something up.

And then there it was. The shift. That sudden release of pressure, the foot dropping away just before she spun. He saw the pivot in her hips, the twist in her shoulders, and recognized it instantly: a spinning back heel kick, meant to decapitate. If not in body, then in spirit. Timing became everything.

Tomás dropped.

It wasn’t graceful, mind you. His legs simply buckled, dropping him just below the arc of her kick. The air above him hissed with the passage of her heel, close enough to stir his ashen hair. His forearm dragged across the mat as he landed in a crouch, twisting his body to face her flank as she followed through. He could get up, his heart was willing. But the body at the moment wasn’t.

[Bare]

Cleo smirked softly as despite more resistance than expected her opponent would slowly start to rise up in response to her heel forcing the man up higher and higher until he was in a near standing position. Spinning sharply she intended to bring her heel colliding with the man's face and ko him so that she could take advantage of the punishment that would come with being knocked senseless underfoot.

Just as she brought her foot from his chin and turned to deliver the roundhouse kick Cleo could tell almost immediately that something was wrong. However at this point she was already in motion and couldn't stop herself as she pun, delivering the kick only to hit nothing but air Spinning around to a stop Cleo noted that the man had dropped right in front of her making Cleo hiss under her breathe and grit her teeth.

"Stupid welp." Cleo hissed out in annoyance, fists clenched in frustration as she then stepped forward and threw her leg up, trying to rain down a series of vicious stomps on his body, forgoing elegance in favor of brutal efficiency. If successful with at least most of these stomps then Cleo would rear her leg back before flinging it forward, aiming to drive a brutal punt kick right into the man's ribs to try and force him away and out of the ring!