Sidestepped. Bruce observes, and while his standards are high enough that he doesn't show any appreciation for the fact that Clark takes a swing as he'd been shown how to do that night in Milwaukee, he at least doesn't look disappointed. One hand snags Clark's wrist, fingers looping around. His other, in a fist, tags Clark's ribs light enough to barely be a tap. Marking. If they were matched for strength, farmboy would be in a world of hurt.

He stops.

"Once more."

This time, Bruce stops him with a hand on his wrist, and guides Clark to shove his elbow towards Bruce, aiming at his solar plexus. There's an art to it, but it isn't an elegant one. Holds and hold-breaking, using brute force only where the weak points are, to destabilize and cripple.

"You follow?"