Chapter Seven
Berkley
I’m gonna blow this entire goddamn mission. And for what? Because I needed to blow off some steam?
Stupid.
Ronan never shows up early. Not to anything. Ten minutes before a fight? That’s his style. Walk in, fuck shit up, walk out.
But tonight?
He’s here hours early.
And the second I spotted him prowling along the edges of the underground like he owns the place, my pulse starts to hammer.
I’m in the middle of my third match—my fist slamming into the jaw of some beast of a guy hard enough that the impact rattles all the way up my elbow—and despite all of that, I still see him.
Across the room. Locked in.
He hears the crowd chanting my stage name, and his head snaps toward the cage like a fucking bloodhound catching a scent and then starts moving. Deliberate. Focused. Straight for me.
He doesn’t know it’s me. Not yet. The disguise throws everyone. That’s the point. But he’s intrigued. I can feel it. Each time someone shouts my name, his head turns like a damn compass needle drawn to the storm.
And every time the noise swells, I see it—that look in his eyes.
Curious. Calculating. Almost reverent.
He’s trying to make contact. Trying to read what’s behind the cage, behind the mask, behind the chaos. And I’m not ready for that.
God, I am not ready for that.
Because if he finds out it’s me… if he knows who he’s looking at… I don’t know what I’ll do.
My body stills for half a second too long—just long enough for the giant I’m fighting to land a glancing blow to my ribs.
It’s the first real hit of the night. I shake it off quickly, shove the pain down deep where I keep the rest of it—but something knocks loose inside me, something I’ve been holding together with nothing but rage and threadbare hope.
Somewhere in the twisted mess of my mind, I know—I know—they couldn’t have helped that night.
That there was nothing they could’ve done.
But that logic doesn’t do shit for the kid in me who still wanted to be saved.
Who hoped, prayed, and begged—that someone would come.
That they’d sense something was wrong. That they’d show up like knights in dented armor and drag us out of hell.
Fairytales. That’s all it ever was.
But it’s dangerous, the “what ifs.” They’re like hooks you can’t dig out once they sink in deep. They’ll haunt you if you let them. And if you’re not careful, they’ll drive you straight off the edge.
I’ve learned that the hard way. Over and over. I can’t change the past. Can’t go back. Can’t rescue anyone.
Not Reign.
Not me.
There’s no hero in this story.
Only rage. Fire. Revenge.
And I’ll gladly extract it—every ounce of vengeance, every last drop of blood debt—from each of them. One by one. Brick by crumbling, burning brick.
Starting with the guy currently stumbling around in front of me, dazed and clueless, just another name on a fight card with no idea he’s been cast as the first domino. He’s nothing—just a warm-up, a distraction to keep me entertained. But time’s no longer on my side.
Because Ronan’s here.
I felt the shift in the air the second he walked in—like lightning pressed against my skin, hot and sharp and familiar in all the ways that make my heart slam against my ribs. I can’t afford to linger, not with him watching, circling, hunting for something he doesn’t know he’s found yet.
So, I end it.
A quick pivot, then a sharp strike—my fist connecting with the side of the guy’s temple in a clean, brutal arc. Just muscle, speed, and purpose. He drops hard, legs giving out as if whatever kept him standing just shut off. No ceremony. No grace.
The crowd roars, but I don’t bask in it. There’s no time for that.
I’m out of the ring before the ref’s even finished checking for a pulse.
With my breath still steady and adrenaline buzzing in my veins, I snatch the envelope of cash from the organizer’s clammy grip without a word.
My head stays low, my hood pulled tight, every step smooth and calculated.
I melt into the crowd like I was never there—just a ghost passing through the chaos.
Because tonight was never about glory. It’s never been about cheers or recognition. It’s about control—taking it back the only way I know how anymore. With my fists. With sweat, blood, and the echo of bone cracking beneath my knuckles.
Sometimes the weight of the last few years presses down so hard it feels like I might break beneath it. The memories, fueling the silence. The fury with nowhere to go. And when it threatens to drown me, this is the only thing that quiets the noise, this violence disguised as purpose.
But tonight, more than any other, I have to stay calm. Focused. I have work to do. Monsters to corner. Justice to deliver.
And I’m already running behind.
I lost track of time—completely. Something I never do.
Not anymore. Not since I started this war.
But Ronan... he threw me off. He got too close.
Too damn close. I could feel him watching me from across the room, like his eyes were trying to burn straight through my disguise and into the marrow of who I used to be.
It rattled me more than I want to admit.
And in the distraction of it—of him—I nearly missed my window.
That’s not a mistake I can afford to make again.
This next target? He’s one of the second-tier monsters.
The other man who hurt Reign—not with fists, but with the kind of damage that slips beneath the skin, leaving no bruises, only wounds that never stop bleeding.
I promised myself they’d all pay for what they did to her, to us.
Dean and Bryce are at the top of the food chain, but I’m saving those bastards for last. I want them to watch the world they built crumble—brick by brick, person by person—until there’s nothing left but smoke and ash.
Tonight, it’s another piece of the puzzle. One more link in the chain snapping under the weight of justice they never thought would come.
This part of the plan works like a rhythm—back and forth, strike and vanish.
One building after another, alternating hits to keep them scrambling and off-balance.
No time to recover, no way to predict what’s next.
The pressure mounts, and with each strike, the cracks spread wider.
Eventually, there’ll be nothing left standing.
They’ll be alone. Terrified. Watching everything they thought was untouchable get ripped apart.
That’s endgame.
They crowned themselves gods—superior, above consequence. But I’ve become far more ruthless.
Not divine.
Just inevitable.
A reckoning wrapped in skin and fury.
And I won’t stop until the last one crumbles beneath me.
But what matters right now is Stanley Picklemire—recently and irrevocably found guilty of being a Grade-A, grease-slick sleazeball with a smile that hides rot and a conscience long since buried.
The name sounds like it belongs to a cartoon character with a nasal voice and a pocket protector, but don’t let that fool you.
Stanley’s been volunteering with kids for years, all smiles and “community hero” bullshit, always the first to raise his hand when a camera is nearby.
He’s fostered more than a few unlucky souls over the last decade, churning them through his house like broken toys—used, dismissed, ignored.
They tried to speak. They did speak. To countless people. Teachers, neighbors, other adults. But no one listened. No one ever does.
Until now.
Stanley’s time to repent has arrived—and lucky for him, I specialize in divine judgment with a flair for poetic endings.
The front door creaks open as I slip into the house like a whisper.
The boy he’s fostering now—a quiet, hollow-eyed kid who barely speaks above a whisper—was already gone when I arrived.
Probably hiding somewhere spurred from an instinct that comes from years of learning when silence equals safety.
He won’t come back until the last possible moment.
Until the sky darkens and there’s no other choice.
I’ll leave him a note. Let him know he’s safe. Let him know the monster won’t be waiting this time.
Not that he’ll ever get the chance to read it. No one will.
Because there’s only one way to kill a monster like him.
You burn them in hell.
The accelerants are already in place, stashed in cabinets and closets from when I broke in the other night. The smell is faint, masked just enough. Since the maid’s off until Monday—an unfortunate twist of fate for Stanley, but perfect for me—no one will find them.
He shouldn’t be long now. Word is, he’s out spending time with a hooker—which, honestly, is the least offensive thing he’s done all week. Apparently, kids aren’t his only vice.
The more sins, the hotter the flames will burn.
Tonight’s main event isn’t just the fire.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, watching this house of horrors melt into a pile of ash is going to be satisfying as hell, but I’ve added a little bonus feature for the guest of honor.
A custom flycatcher. Especially designed for predators like Stanley Picklemire.
It works kind of like those gross yellow strips people hang from their porches, the ones covered in dead bugs and summer regrets.
But this one? This one’s invisible. No warning.
Just a clear, industrial-strength adhesive I’ve stretched across the entryway like a spiderweb spun by karma itself.
One step through the front door, and he’s mine.
I want him to struggle. I want the moment of panic, that sliver of realization when he understands he’s trapped—that it’s him for once. Stuck. Helpless. Just like the kids he’s silenced and hurt and tossed aside like garbage. I want him to feel what they felt. What Reign felt. Only worse.