It’s half past 1 in the morning on Thursday. Air conditioning serves as a reprieve from the sweltering heat in Tokyo, which had felt like a sauna the previous two days at Korakuen Hall.
Full of adrenaline from back-to-back physically grinding matches—full of blood, bruises and foreign objects—Jon Moxley has no intention of going to sleep.
So he agrees to take a phone call. Sitting on his hotel room couch, the shirtless purveyor of violence notices a puddle of blood beside him.
