Chapter 17 Katana #2
I drag the folders closer anyway, forcing myself to read.
Line after line. Names, ages, scraps of lives that came to us looking for something better.
Sixteen-year-old Lila, pulled out of a trap house where her uncle sold her more than once for a hit.
Marcy, barely eighteen, hiding bruises under sleeves.
And Devyn. Nineteen, cocky as hell, but I remember the first night she walked in, eyes sharp enough to cut, jaw set like she’d rather swing at me than admit she needed help.
She told me later she’d been trading punches underground for rent money.
I rub at my temple. The thought of their stories branded onto these pages in the wrong hands, used against them makes my skin crawl.
It’s way past lunchtime when I make my way out to the gym floor.
Pads thud under fists, feet scrape the mats.
Jump ropes whine. Water bottles crack open.
Chalk dust webs the air, the sweet-bitter of Tiger Balm riding under sweat and disinfectant.
Normally the rhythm of training is grounding, wrapping around me like armor.
Today my body reacts to it like friction against already raw nerves.
I hover at the edge of the ring, my arms crossed against the pull in my ribs. Every jab and hook makes me ache with the want to climb in there. I rock once on my heels, then plant. Discipline over impulse. My body isn’t ready, not even close but it doesn’t stop the itch.
Devyn notices me before anyone else. She’s always had that radar when it comes to me.
She finishes her drill, pulls her gloves off with her teeth, and hops down from the ring.
Sweat streaks her temples, her ponytail sticking damp to her back.
She gives me a crooked smile, worry and relief evident in her sigh.
“You shouldn’t be up,” she says, frowning. “You look like hell.”
I smirk, though it’s more grimace than anything. “Thanks for the compliment, kid.”
She rolls her eyes, but the warmth in them softens me. Devyn’s tough as nails, sharper than half the men I’ve met, but with me she’s always been softer. Like she knows I need it even when I won’t admit it.
She bumps my shoulder gently with hers, then pretends she didn’t when I flinch. The kid is careful with me in ways that make my chest ache.
“Seriously, Kat.” She nudges my arm, careful not to jostle too hard. “Don’t push yourself into the ground. We need you around here.”
I don’t say it, but she’s the reason I keep forcing myself upright. She and girls like her. If I lie down now, if I fold, who protects them?
The answer is nobody, and that’s not something I’ll ever allow.
My gaze flicks past Devyn to the punching bags.
Amber has her gloves raised, more focused than I’ve ever seen her.
Serrano put her through hell to send us a warning, but that didn’t work out well for him.
Now that she’s healed, she’s more determined than ever.
Her footwork’s off, but her punches are solid.
She’s trying, and that alone makes my chest tighten with pride.
She sets her jaw the same way she did the night she told me she wanted to learn to hit back. I smile, whispering a small “hell yeah”.
But then Riot’s voice cuts through the clatter, as she steps up behind her. “Keep your chin down. Elbows in.”
Amber stiffens mid-combo. Just a flicker, but I see it.
Her glove drops a fraction, her breath hitching.
Riot steps closer, her tone calm, instructional.
Nothing cruel. But Amber’s eyes flash wide for just a second, before she forces herself back into step.
Her reaction is pushed down quickly, but I recognise fear when I see it.
I move to the side of the bag, catching Amber’s eye between swings.
“You good?” I ask, low enough for only her to hear.
She swallows, nods quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”
She looks over her shoulder, toward Riot and then away. “I don’t know why I reacted like that. She caught me off guard I guess.”
Before I can press, Riot shifts her attention my way. Her gaze is quick, sharp, almost too sharp. She smirks like always, but it doesn’t hit her eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, Kat.” She shifts Amber’s bag a few inches over, tugging at the chain, the movement sharper than necessary. “I’ve got her. She’s solid.”
I nod. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe Riot’s just being Riot. Sharp edges, tough love, always pushing the girls harder than they think they can go.
I linger a few minutes longer, weighing whether to press, but LC drifts over, a bottle of water in her hand. She doesn’t say much, just presses it into mine, her eyes narrowing the way they do when she’s reading me too well.
I take the bottle, twist the cap, and take a sip, letting the cold water burn its way down.
“We’re supposed to be acting natural.” LC reminds me quietly, steering me toward the benches.“Sit down and rest.”
I sink onto the bench, taking another sip of water. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I’ve been so distracted that I forgot to take care of myself. That has to stop or I’ll be no good to anyone. Not the girls, not my club and especially not finding the truth.
I should call it. Head upstairs. Rest. But I don’t. The shuffle of movement, gloves being swapped, and the thud of a new round starting distracts me. For a little while I sit there, listening to the thud of fists, the rhythm of the gym settling into its groove.
Hours slip by in a haze of sparring rounds, grunts and laughter. The noise and rhythm settle me. The gym feels normal again. Or at least it looks like it.
My gaze drifts, scanning the gym when I spot Riot again.
She’s at the water cooler, one elbow propped on top, phone angled low in her hand.
At first it looks harmless. She could be checking messages, killing time like anyone else.
But then her wrist tilts, angling toward the main floor and I catch the soft click of a camera.
Quinn crosses by her at that exact moment, and Riot tenses, just for a breath and slips her phone into her pocket.
Then she’s relaxed again, leaning casual against the cooler like nothing happened.
Quinn’s eyes flick from Riot to me. I give the barest shake of my head, keeping it small enough no one else notices.
But I saw it. And I can’t unsee it. Across the mats, LC stiffens, her gaze sharp, already clocking what I just did. She saw it too.
The doubt that’s been gnawing at me claws deep enough it leaves marks.
Twilight drips in through the high windows, turning metal to a bruised-blue. The day’s noise thins to the soft clatter of cleanup.
Devyn loops a towel around her neck and disappears toward the locker room. She gives me a small salute when she catches my eye. It lands warm and sharp in my chest. The ordinary of it is almost enough to carry me through. Almost.
My body’s done with me. My ribs gnash every time I twist. I swallow three Advil dry and they stick in my throat.
Quinn flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED. LC drags the mop bucket toward the far hall, muttering under her breath about the damn wheels always sticking. Someone kills the overheads on the far side of the gym and a ripple of shadow slides across the floor.
Riot doesn’t see me watching her. Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s counting on me seeing her be exactly what she’s always been. She floats through the gym, drops a few words to Quinn I can’t catch. Casual. Normal. Almost too normal.
Quinn brushes a hand over my shoulder on her way past. “Go on, Kat. I’ll finish up.”
“I’ll check the locker room, make sure everyone’s out,” LC adds, already moving toward the back.
I let them, my ribs howling for mercy as I make my way toward the back entrance to the clubhouse. The weight of the day presses heavy across my back, each muscle one twitch away from collapse.
I make it halfway before LC’s shout knifes through the stillness.“Quinn! Kat!”
Quinn’s already moving fast, I turn too quick and white-hot pain flares through my ribs, bright enough to blind me. I ride it out, my teeth clenched, my hand skimming the wall for balance as I force myself toward the locker room.
The air inside is damp, thick with steam.
The benches are empty except for Devyn’s phone facedown and her bag slumped beside it.
A shower hisses somewhere in the back, water hitting tile in a steady rhythm that feels too loud in the silence.
A towel lies in a heap just outside the stall, wet where the spray’s reached it.
My stomach drops through the floor.
“She’s not here,” LC snaps, panic slicing through the words.
“Check again,” Quinn fires back, though we all know it’s pointless.
I force myself forward, ribs screaming, my hand catching the locker row for balance. My gaze locks on the bag again. It’s unzipped, half her things spilling out like she left in a rush.
Quinn’s voice is low, grim. “She didn’t walk out of here.”
I slam my hand against the locker so hard the echo rattles the mirrors and the pain in my side drops me to my knees. “Fuck. Fuck!”
The hiss of the shower cuts off, leaving the room drowned in silence. My pulse thunders in my ears.
LC is at the back exit, palm flat to the heavy door. She looks at me over her shoulder, dread widening her eyes. “It was propped,” she says. “With this.”
She holds up a familiar gym flyer folded like someone needed the door to look closed from the inside but easy to open from the outside. The camera’s red light over the doorway is dark.
My world narrows to a pinpoint. I’m the first to say what we’re all thinking. “Where’s Riot?”