Chapter Fifty-One
Melissa
The air in the underground venue was thick with sweat, blood, and something darker I couldn’t name. It clung to my skin, making my lungs work harder with every breath. The crowd pressed in from all sides, a living, breathing thing that fed on violence and spectacle.
I sat rigid in my seat, my spine refusing to touch the backrest, as if staying upright might somehow keep me from drowning in this place.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the conductor’s voice boomed through the speakers, distorted and tinny. “Our final fight of the evening!”
The crowd erupted, a wave of sound that crashed over me. Beside me, Indie’s presence was the only anchor I had, her shoulder pressed against mine in silent solidarity.
Then Mimic moved.
I caught it from the corner of my eye. He rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at us, didn’t acknowledge anyone. He simply melted into the crowd, disappearing between bodies like smoke.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
“Indie,” I whispered, but my voice was swallowed by the roar around us. She heard me anyway. Her hand found mine, fingers lacing tight, and I gripped back hard enough that my knuckles went white.
Please don’t let it be him. Please.
But I knew better. I’d known from the moment Sinclair brought me here, from the moment Rowen’s jaw had tightened in that particular way, that meant he was preparing himself for something terrible.
The conductor continued, his voice dripping with theatrical menace, “Entering the cage first, a man who needs no introduction in these circles. A fighter whose reputation precedes him, whose record speaks for itself...”
The crowd’s energy shifted, grew uglier.
“Jasper ‘Hawk’ Michaels!”
The name hit me like a fist to the sternum.
All the air left my lungs in a rush. The world tilted, narrowed to a pinpoint, then expanded too fast, too bright. My vision swam as a figure emerged from the opposite side of the venue, and even through the haze of bodies and smoke, I knew him. Would have known him anywhere.
Jasper Michaels.
The man who killed Travis.
He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never faced real consequences, his tattooed arms swinging loosely at his sides, a predator’s smile splitting his face.
The crowd loved him. I could hear it in their cheers, see it in the way they reached out as he passed, trying to touch him like he was something holy instead of something monstrous.
My hand crushed Indie’s.
“Melissa—” she started, but I couldn’t hear her over the rushing in my ears.
Travis’ face flashed behind my eyes. The way he’d looked that last time, before everything went wrong. Before Michaels took him from me.
“And his opponent,” the conductor announced, drawing out the words, savoring them. “The masked challenger!”
Another figure appeared, this one from the shadows near our section. He wore black fighting shorts and a tight black long sleeve shirt that hugged his torso, along with the mask—a simple black covering that obscured his entire face.
“Breathe, Mellie.” Indie leaned close, her breath hot against my ear.
“I—” I choked out. “I can’t... I don’t know how.”
The two fighters entered the cage from opposite sides. The metal door clanged shut behind them with a finality that made my stomach drop.
This was real. This was happening.
The referee—if you could call him that—gave brief instructions I couldn’t hear. Michaels bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, that same sick smile never leaving his face. The masked fighter stood perfectly still, watching, waiting.
Then the bell rang.
The sound of it was swallowed immediately by the crowd’s roar, but I felt it in my bones, a death knell, an ending beginning.
They circled each other warily, feet shuffling across the blood-stained canvas, each man looking for an opening, searching for that split-second vulnerability.
The air between them crackled with tension.
For a moment, I thought maybe it would be quick.
Maybe it would be over before I had to really see it, really understand what was happening.
Maybe I could close my eyes and when I opened them again, it would all be finished.
Then Michaels lunged forward with terrifying speed.
The first punch connected with the masked fighter’s ribs, emitting a sound like a baseball bat hitting meat, a deep, wet thud I felt in my chest. I flinched hard, my whole body jerking back involuntarily, my hands gripping the edge of my seat.
The masked fighter absorbed the brutal impact, his body compressing from the force but barely moving from his position.
He stood there like a statue taking damage, then countered with a vicious strike to Michaels’ jaw that snapped his head sideways at an unnatural angle as blood sprayed across the canvas in a wide arc, droplets catching the harsh overhead lights.
The crowd around me erupted, screaming their approval, voices hoarse from previous rounds. Their faces were twisted with bloodlust and excitement, fists pumping the air.
My stomach turned over.
“I can’t,” I started, but Indie’s grip tightened.
“Don’t look away,” she said, her voice hard. “You need to understand.”
So I watched.
I watched as they tore into each other with a brutality I’d never witnessed, never imagined, never thought possible between two human beings.
Every punch landed with sickening force, the impact echoing through the warehouse like gunshots.
Every kick drove the air from lungs with audible gasps, sent bodies crashing into the cage walls with metallic rattles that reverberated in my chest. The sound of it, flesh on flesh, bone on bone, the wet thud of knuckles against ribs, made bile rise in my throat.
I had to swallow it down, force myself to keep watching even as every instinct screamed at me to look away.
This wasn’t fighting. This wasn’t even close to what I’d seen in boxing matches or MMA tournaments on TV. This was murder dressed up as sport, violence stripped of any pretense of rules or honor or humanity.
Michaels was good; I could see that even through my horror, even as my hands trembled and my stomach churned.
He moved like someone who’d done this a thousand times, maybe more, who knew exactly where to hit to cause maximum damage without killing.
Not immediately, anyway. He caught the masked fighter with a devastating elbow strike that opened a jagged cut above his eye, blood streaming down into the mask in rivulets, staining the fabric dark and making it cling to his face.
The crowd roared its approval, a sound that made my skin crawl.
But the masked fighter didn’t slow.
Didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch at the blood pouring into his eyes.
He moved with a precision that was almost beautiful in its violence, almost artistic in its brutality, each strike calculated, purposeful, delivered with surgical accuracy.
Not wild or angry but controlled. Methodical.
Deadly. Like he was dismantling Michaels piece by piece, joint by joint, testing him, learning him, preparing for something worse to come.
Minutes passed or maybe hours; I couldn’t tell anymore. Time had become elastic, stretching and compressing with each blow. My hand ached where Indie held it, but I couldn’t let go. If I let go, I’d fall apart completely.
Then something shifted.
The masked fighter caught Michaels with a devastating combination: a sharp jab followed by a thunderous right cross that sent him stumbling backward on unsteady legs.
His knees buckled slightly as he tried to regain his balance.
For the first time all night, uncertainty flickered across Michaels’ face, replacing the cocky confidence he’d worn like armor since the opening bell.
The invincibility he’d projected just moments ago had cracked.
He recovered quickly, shaking off the cobwebs, and came back swinging with desperate aggression, throwing wild haymakers in hopes of landing something significant, but the momentum had shifted irreversibly.
The masked fighter was hunting now, moving forward with predatory intent.
He drove Michaels against the cold steel of the cage with relentless pressure, cutting off the octagon and eliminating any escape routes.
He landed blow after blow with mechanical efficiency—each punch precise, calculated, finding its mark.
Left hook to the body. Right uppercut to the chin.
Another combination to the temple. Michaels tried desperately to cover himself, raising his hands to protect his battered face, but it wasn’t enough.
The masked fighter was too accurate, too skilled at finding the openings.
Blood poured from Michaels’ nose in a steady stream, joining the blood from his split lip and pooling on the canvas below.
One eye was swelling shut rapidly, the flesh around it turning purple and puffy.
The crowd’s energy changed dramatically, growing frenzied and almost primal. They were on their feet now, roaring with bloodlust. They could sense it, the end approaching like an inevitable storm.
Stop, I thought desperately. Just stop. He’s done. It’s over.
But it wasn’t over.
The masked fighter grabbed Michaels, then spun him around with brutal force.
The momentum carried Michaels off balance, his feet stumbling as he tried to regain his footing.
Before Michaels could react, before he could even process what was happening, an arm snaked around his throat from behind, locking in tight.
The masked fighter’s forearm pressed against Michaels’ windpipe with practiced precision.
Michaels’ hands came up immediately, clawing desperately at the arm, attempting to pry it away, trying to break the hold that was cutting off his air.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My legs felt like they’d been filled with concrete, rooting me to the spot. Every instinct screamed at me to do something, anything, but my body refused to respond.
The masked fighter’s other arm came up, wrapping around Michaels’ head, positioning it just so. The grip adjusted, tightened. I could see the muscles in the masked fighter’s arms flex and bulge as they prepared for what came next.
Time slowed to a crawl. Everything around me seemed to fade into the background, the roaring crowd, the flickering lights, the announcer’s voice.
I saw every detail with horrible clarity—the strain in the masked fighter’s arms, the cords of muscle standing out beneath the skin, the panic in Michaels’ visible eye as realization dawned, the way the crowd leaned forward as one, hungry for what came next.
Some were already on their feet, phones raised, recording.
The masked fighter’s lips moved as he whispered in Jasper’s ear.
Then the twist.
Sharp. Violent. Final.
The crack echoed through the venue, somehow audible over everything else, cutting through the noise like a gunshot. A sound I knew I’d hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. A sound that would wake me up in cold sweats, gasping.
Michaels’ body went limp instantly, a puppet with cut strings.
His arms dropped, hanging uselessly at his sides.
His legs buckled. The masked fighter held him for a moment longer, almost tenderly, then let him drop.
Michaels crumpled to the mat in sections, knees first, then torso, then his head bouncing once against the canvas.
His body lay there motionless, his head at an angle that was all wrong, twisted in a way that human anatomy shouldn’t allow, eyes staring at nothing, seeing nothing.
Dead.
The crowd exploded.
I sat frozen, my hand still locked in Indie’s, unable to process what I’d just witnessed. Unable to reconcile the clinical efficiency of that kill with anything human.
The masked fighter stood over the body, chest heaving with labored breaths.
Blood—his own and Michaels’—covered his shirt in dark, glistening streaks.
The metallic scent of it hung heavy in the air, mixing with sweat and the acrid smell of fear.
He didn’t raise his arms in victory. Didn’t acknowledge the crowd’s thunderous adulation; their screams and cheers washed over him like a tidal wave of sound.
He just stood there, perfectly still, as if waiting for something.
As if listening for a signal only he could hear.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned toward our section. The movement was calculated, purposeful, like a predator who’d finally located his prey.
Even through the mask, even across the distance and chaos and the sea of writhing bodies between us, I felt his gaze find mine with laser precision as the masked fighter reached up and removed the mask covering his face.
The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing features I knew as well as my own reflection.
My vision blurred with tears I hadn’t realized were falling, hot tracks burning down my cheeks. My hands trembled in my lap, fingers clutching at nothing. Beside me, Indie leaned close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispered, “Family protects family. Always.”
But I couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears, the way my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs from the inside.
The world had narrowed to a single point, that face, those eyes, that impossible truth staring back at me from the blood-soaked arena floor.
Mimic had just killed a man with his bare hands.
And he’d done it for me.