Chapter 7 #2
My opponent swings again, and I block too late. Pain bursts across my cheekbone, hot and clean, but it barely registers. The fence rattles behind me. The crowd gets louder, hungry because I’m taking hits I should’ve seen coming.
Get your fucking shit together, Jagger.
Move.
Hit him and end this.
Johnny steps closer to the cage, but he isn’t laughing.
Now, he’s smiling.
Wide. Cocky. Evil as fuck.
Like he knows he just ruined me and wants a front-row seat for the fucking fallout.
“Aw come on, little brother.”
I don’t look.
I fucking don’t.
The guy in front of me throws another punch, sloppy and wide. I catch it this time, twist his wrist, and shove him back hard enough that he stumbles. I’m about to follow when Johnny’s hand slips into his jacket and something white flashes between his fingers.
Two photos.
Glossy and fresh.
My whole body locks.
No.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
Not where that sick fuck gets to watch me see it.
Johnny presses them against the chain-link.
“Just look at her,” he says softly.
The world narrows.
Red light. Silver chains. Alice.
My fucking Alice.
In the first photo, she’s hanging from the ceiling fixture by her wrists, hair a mess, face flushed, tights torn open, her body caught under that ugly darkroom glow like Johnny staged her there just so I’d know exactly where my hands weren’t.
The second photo is worse.
Closer.
Crueler.
Not her face this time. Not the chains. Just the intimate proof of what he did to her. What he left behind. What he wanted me to see.
My stomach turns so hard it almost takes me with it.
For one second, there’s no warehouse. No crowd. No opponent breathing hard in front of me. No cage under my feet.
Just proof.
His proof.
The sick fuck didn’t just touch her.
He made evidence.
Johnny’s voice cuts through the noise, calm and amused and so fucking proud of himself I want to rip his tongue out through the fence.
“Pretty, isn’t she? Strong one, too. I’ll give her that.”
My hands curl into fists.
The rage doesn’t hit loud.
It hits deep.
Ugly and mine.
Johnny tilts the photos slightly, making sure I see every goddamn inch he wants me to see.
“Took it like a champ.” His smile cuts wider. “And fuck, little brother, you should’ve heard how pretty she sounded when she broke for me.”
Something in me snaps clean through.
I look at my opponent instead of my brother.
Broad shoulders. Too much confidence. Hands too low when he breathes. Right knee weaker than the left. He favors it when he turns.
Plan is simple.
Take the knee. Work the body. Let him swing himself stupid.
Johnny whistles from the other side of the cage. “You’re fighting like shit tonight.”
I don’t look at him.
“You’d think you’d be more focused.” His fingers hook through the chain-link, voice lazy and amused. “Ghost girl not able to make it and all.”
My shoulders tighten.
Johnny doesn’t swing blind. He never has. He finds the soft spot first, smiles, then presses until something fucking splits.
I keep my eyes on the guy in front of me. “Shut up.”
“Aw, don’t throw a tantrum.” Johnny laughs under his breath. “She’s fine. Well…” He pauses, because of course he fucking does. “Fine-ish.”
My fist curls.
The referee checks my opponent’s mouthguard, then mine. I bare my teeth just enough for him to see it’s in.
Johnny keeps talking.
“I unchained her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
My head turns before I can stop it.
Johnny’s eyes brighten.
Mistake.
I know it the second his grin spreads.
“What did you say?”
“I said I unchained her.” He shrugs like he’s being helpful. “Relax. I’m not a monster.”
I take one step toward the fence and the referee barks my name.
Johnny only smiles wider. “She’s definitely not walking into the warehouse tonight, though. Not after everything you’re little toy and I did.”
The words hit like a blade under the ribs.
“And that cute little mark you left?” His gaze drops for half a second, like he can still see it. “The pretty little scratch on her tit. Very fucking dramatic of you. Naive of you to think it would stop me, but honestly on brand for you.”
My vision goes red around the edges.
Johnny leans closer to the fence.
“Thats right. I saw it, little brother.”
The whistle blows.
My opponent moves.
This time, I’m ready enough to make him regret it.
He comes in heavy, swinging for my head like he thinks size makes him dangerous. I slip left and bury my fist in his ribs. Once. Twice. He grunts, drops his guard, and I take his knee out with a low kick that makes his whole body buckle.
The crowd roars.
I don’t hear them right though, I hear Johnny.
I saw it.
She’s not walking in tonight.
Everything we did.
The guy swings again, sloppy and pissed, and I let him come close enough to feel safe before I break that illusion. My elbow catches his jaw. His head snaps sideways. Blood spits across the mat.
He stumbles but this time, I follow.
There's no sign of clean Wraith now.
No patient waiting or quiet little openings.
I still know where to hit, but there’s nothing calm about it anymore. Every punch is Johnny’s mouth. Every crack of bone is the photos he took and kept. Every grunt from the idiot in front of me sounds like it’s coming from the wrong fucking throat.
I drive him into the fence and the cage rattles.
He tries to recover, but it’s too late.
I hit him until his hands drop. Hit him until his knees give, the referee is shouting my name and bodies are moving toward us because even this crowd knows when a fight stops being a fight.
Someone grabs my shoulder but I throw them off.
My opponent hits the mat hard, barely moving and around us the warehouse goes fucking insane.
I stand over him, breathing hard, blood on my knuckles, blood in my mouth, and all I can think is that it still isn’t enough.
Because he isn’t Johnny.
I turn toward the fence.
Johnny is already stepping back.
He got what he wanted. The fucking monster is out, and now he’s leaving before it reaches him.
His grin is wide as he backs into the crowd.
“Go check on your girl,” he calls, voice almost swallowed by the crowd. “She probably still smells like me.”
Then he laughs, and walks away.
I don’t wait for the referee. Don’t wait for the winner's call. I ignore the hands trying to shove me back toward the center of the cage.
I storm out of the warehouse with blood on my hands and Alice in my fucking head.
Johnny can laugh all he wants.
First, I’m going to find her, and then, then I’m going to fucking kill him.
I leave the cage with blood on my hands and murder sitting quiet behind my teeth.
People shout after me. The referee. The bookie. Some asshole at the door yelling about the fight like I give a fuck about rules right now. I shove through bodies, and when someone grabs my shoulder, I turn on him so fast he lets go before I have to make him.
Smart.
The crowd is still screaming Wraith behind me, drunk on what they think they saw. A fighter losing control. A bad fucking night. A man getting carried away because violence feels good once people start chanting your name.
They didn’t see shit.
They didn’t see Johnny at the fence with that grin on his face. They didn’t hear what he said low enough for me to carry alone, or how easy he made it look, pressing the right spot until everything inside me went still before it went violent.
My jaw aches from the hit I let land. My cheekbone pulses. My knuckles are split open under the tape, sticky with blood that isn’t all mine, and none of it matters because the wrong body went down in that cage.
Johnny walked away.
That’s the only thing in my head when I push out of the cage and into the crush of the warehouse.
I don’t stay for the winner call. Don’t let them lift my hand or wait for the crowd to get another look at the monster they paid to see.
I shove through them and head straight for the back door.
Cold air cuts across my face when I step into the alley, sharp enough to clear the sweat for half a second. Rain drifts down through the dark, turning the pavement black under the warehouse lights. Behind me, the noise dulls to a low roar, but Johnny’s voice stays clear in my skull.
She’s fine.
I unchained her.
Not walking in tonight, though.
Not after everything we did.
My hand curls around my phone before I remember pulling it out.
I call Alice.
It rings until her voicemail picks up.
I hang up and call again.
Same thing.
By the third call, my grip is tight enough to make the phone creak. I need her to answer. Need to hear her breathing, swearing, telling me I’m a psycho and she’s fine and to leave her the fuck alone.
Anything.
The silence is worse than the rage.
I start walking before I decide to. My body picks the direction and my head catches up somewhere between the warehouse district and her apartment, where the rain smears the streetlights and every shadow looks like something worth hitting.
I don’t go home or even wash off the blood.
I don’t fucking stop to think, because thinking is how Johnny stays alive for another five minutes.
Alice first.
Then my brother.
That’s the only order that matters.
Her building looks like shit in the rain. Second-floor walk-up. Peeling paint and narrow stairs. The kind of place that makes my skin tighten because anyone could get in if they wanted to badly enough.
I take the stairs two at a time and stop outside her door, staring at the deadbolt, the cheap frame, the gap near the floor.
One kick.
That’s all it would take.