Chapter Twenty-Six
Zane
It started when I ran into Griff.
I wasn’t looking for him.
I didn’t even recognize him at first.
Just saw a guy leaning against the side of a liquor store, hoodie up, jaw tight, smoke curling from his mouth. Then he turned his head, and it hit me. The twitch in his jaw. That scar near his temple. Eyes that always looked one wrong word away from snapping.
Griff. Only older. Meaner.
The fucker owes me from way back.
We were in the same hellhole of a foster home when we were kids. Both angry. Both used to getting hit more than hugged. I took the fall for him once—busted nose, split lip, blamed for a fight I didn’t fucking start. He never said thanks. Just gave me a nod and walked away as if that was enough.
We hadn’t seen each other since we were fifteen. I figured he was either locked up or dead by now.
But that night, he looked at me as if no time had passed. Spit out my name and gave me that same crooked grin.
We swapped numbers, not because I wanted to, but because there was something about seeing him again that dug up old shit I hadn’t dealt with.
That was a week ago.
Now he’s texted me. Said he wants to meet.
So here I am, standing on the corner outside some dive bar with a busted neon sign buzzing overhead, throwing pale blue light across the cracked sidewalk. The alley reeks of piss and old beer. Trash rustles behind a dumpster, probably a rat or something worse.
Then I see him.
Shitty leather jacket. Eyes bloodshot. The twitch in his jaw is still there.
“You wanna make some quick cash?” Griff asks, flicking his lighter open and shut in that twitchy rhythm he always had as a kid.
He used to do that all the time. Sit on the bunk across from me, flicking that damn lighter until the noise made you want to scream.
I shrug. “You know anyone giving it away?”
He laughs. “Not exactly giving it. But I got a place. They pay for fists.”
That gets my attention.
I glance over. “How much are we talking?”
His grin spreads slowly, teeth yellowed from smoke and bad choices.
He nods toward the alley. “Come on. You’ll want to see it first.”
We cut through alleys and backstreets, heading deeper into the industrial wasteland on the edge of the town. We stop in front of an old, long-abandoned meatpacking warehouse. The sign above the door is rusted. The windows are blacked out with tarps or sheet metal.
There’s a guy at the door. Buzz-cut. Neck tattoo. Arms folded across his chest.
Griff steps up, mutters something low, too quick for me to catch. The guy grunts, gives him a once-over, and moves to the side, letting us pass without another word.
Inside, the air hits different.
Stinks of old sweat, fresh blood, and years of bad choices. The floor is sticky. In the center of the space, surrounded by rows of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, is a cage.
Chain-link. Eight feet high. Rusted red in patches that sure as hell ain’t just rust. Bare bulbs hang from wires above it, some flickering, some dead, all casting a sick yellow glow that turns everything into something uglier.
And fuck the crowd—it’s a goddamn circus.
Men in tailored suits with Rolexes that cost more than rent. Rings thick with diamonds. Faces I’ve seen in the news. Women in thousand-dollar heels, lips red, expressions colder. Their dresses barely cover anything.
I clock it all fast.
This is Griff’s world. Not mine.
But I’m already inside.
We push closer to the cage, shoulder to shoulder with people who don’t flinch when blood sprays. People who lean in when bones crack.
They came for the sound of fists on flesh. For the sight of a man crumpling under the weight of another. For pain, they don’t have to feel themselves.
There’s a fight on.
One guy’s built like a tank, head shaved clean, veins bulging across his neck. Arms thick enough to snap bones without effort.
The other’s lean. Quick. A blur of tension and twitching muscle. His face is a mess—nose smashed flat, one eye already swelling shut, blood dripping from a split across his cheek.
There’s something unhinged in the way he moves. Controlled chaos. He’s not fighting for money. He’s here for something else. Something darker.
There’s no ref. No gloves. No one intervenes when things go too far. Just fists, feet, elbows, knees. Whatever it takes to end it fast and brutally.
The crowd is pressed tight against the cage, packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting over each other, fists raised with money clutched tight and betting on pain. On who bleeds first. On who doesn’t get the fuck back up.
They’re not here for sport.
They’re here for blood.
I watch.
The big guy lunges, all brute force and bad intentions. His fist tears through the air, aimed straight for the wiry guy’s skull. But he’s too slow. The lean guy moves smoothly, slipping beneath the arm. Next comes the strike.
A vicious knee, driven up hard into the big bastard’s ribs. The crack echoes across the cage, loud enough to sound over the crowd. The big man stumbles, arms sagging for just a second.
The smaller fighter closes in. No hesitation. Elbow to the temple—fast and savage. Bone meeting bone. The bigger man reels, eyes dull, legs already losing ground. Blood spits from his mouth.
A pivot kick to the head that snaps sideways. Spraying blood through the crowd before he goes down hard.
Shouts. Cheers. All of it drowned beneath the roar that follows.
His body hits the concrete with a dull thud. No twitch. No breath. Arms sprawled wide, mouth open, eyes glazed over.
The crowd explodes, fists in the air, shoving each other, voices colliding as bets are cashed in and names are shouted across the ring.
A man from the back steps forward. No expression. No rush. Rubber gloves already on, apron streaked with dried blood. He moves into the cage, grabs the body by the ankles, and starts dragging him out.
No one stops him. No one checks for a pulse.
The next fighter’s already heading through the cage door, bare-chested, knuckles taped, eyes scanning the blood-slick floor.
Griff leans in. “Different breed in here, huh?”
“Did that fucking kill him?”
“Nah. He’s still breathing. Barely.”
“Jesus.”
Griff chuckles. “Don’t go soft on me now, Zane. You want fast cash. This is where it lives.”
A man in a navy suit steps toward us. Italian cut. Tailored. Too clean for this place.
“Griff,” he says, voice smooth and wrong. “Is this your guy?”
Griff nods. “Zane Rivera. Kid doesn’t lose.”
The man sizes me up. “You street fight?”
“Used to.”
“Ever lose?”
I meet his eyes. “Never.”
He nods once. “You fight for me, and I’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
He smiles slowly, a grin that stretches too wide, the kind that says he already thinks he owns me. “You win, first fight’s five grand.”
I feel a tightening in my chest.
Five K. To them, it’s pocket change. A number thrown around without thought. A drunk night out. A tip to a dealer.
But to me… It’s more than survival. It’s a step toward freedom, towards standing on my own without feeling as if I owe everyone.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, eyes locked on the man in front of me.
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“You lose, you don’t get shit. Simple. You win I get 10% of the earnings” He takes a step closer, voice dropping low. “You throw a fight and I’ll fucking come for you.”
Then he looks back towards the cage, where another fighter steps inside.
“You win fair,” the man says. “And you walk out with more cash than you’ve ever seen in your fucking life.”
Griff slaps my shoulder. “Told you it was worth showing up.”
I don’t answer. My eyes stay fixed on the cage.
They don’t wait for a bell. No count. No rules. Just charge.
A blur of fists, knees and pure fucking violence explodes inside the cage. The crowd loses its shit, pounding on the cage, screaming for more.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Or it’s fucking suicide.
But five grand says I don’t care. And there’s something in me that’s been aching to hit something for weeks.
“Yeah, alright.” I say.
The second the words leave my mouth, everything shifts.
Griff’s grin stretches wide. He mutters something to the guy in the suit, some wordless deal sealed between men who’ve seen too much. He jerks his chin for me to follow.
I do, even though my gut twists as if I’ve stepped into something I won’t be climbing back out from.
We move through the crowd, pushing past the noise and the heat. Fists full of cash flash in the air, money changing hands faster than blood hits the floor. We pass women draped across the arms of men in suits.
The crowd fades behind us.
Giff stops at the third door on the left.
“This one,” he says. “Don’t fuck it up, Zane.”
There’s something in his voice that sounds almost like a warning.
“They remember faces here.”