The blood runs freely now, pouring down the side of his face after her headbutt makes his vision go dark in places. But the heady mix of anger and adrenaline pounding through his veins numbs it to a dull droning in the back of his head. At this point in the fight he's battered, beaten, and almost out of steam, but it's the closest thing to ecstasy he's ever felt. Where all his troubles are crushed out of existence by blood, pain, and the need to win. The need to survive.

This is the reason why he picks fights, why he runs through the rooftop jungles at night looking for trouble. Why he comes to this freakin' den of sin and everything he hates to bust heads until he can't see straight. Because times like these, he's never felt more alive.

He's tired and beaten to hell, but it only pushes him on. And when Korra draws back from the headbutt, even before his eyes clear, he smiles. Just a humorless, blood-smeared and feral bare of the teeth. Then he ducks down, grabs her roughly by the hips, plants his feet, and shoves every ounce of his superior weight and strength into an attempt to push her backward, tackling her with his shoulder in hopes of pinning her against the wall of the cage.

This's his second wind. His last hail Mary pass. It's a sloppy move, but he never did put much value in style.