Chapter 4 - Joanna
The drive home feels longer than usual.
My hands are still shaking on the steering wheel, and I can't tell if it's from the man who grabbed me or from Danny walking me to my car. Maybe both. Probably both.
The streets are empty at this hour. Just streetlights and the occasional car passing in the opposite direction. My sedan makes a concerning rattling noise whenever I go above forty, so I keep it slow. Steady. The heater's broken, has been for months, and I pull my hoodie tighter around myself.
Danny had stood there watching until I drove away. I'd checked my rearview mirror twice. He didn't move. Just stood in that parking lot like some kind of sentinel, hands at his sides, that massive frame backlit by the warehouse lights.
Making sure I was safe.
Mrs. Patricia Morrison lives three blocks from my apartment.
She's sixty-eight, widowed, and has become my lifeline since we moved to Blackwater Falls.
She watches Daisy on fight nights, usually just two or three nights a week, and refuses to take more than twenty dollars a night despite me trying to pay her more.
*"Nonsense,"* she always says. *"That girl's an angel. It's my pleasure."*
I pull up outside her small house and kill the engine. The porch light's still on. She always waits up until I text her that I'm here, no matter how late it gets.
I grab my phone and type: *I'm outside. Be right in.*
The front door opens before I'm halfway up the walk. Mrs. Morrison stands there in her bathrobe, gray hair in curlers, smiling warmly.
"How was work, dear?" she asks as I step inside.
"Fine. Busy." I don't mention the grabby drunk or the terrifying fighter who saved me. "How was Daisy?"
"Perfect, as always. Went down at eight-thirty without a fuss. I read her three stories." Mrs. Morrison leads me toward the guest room. "She asked about you, of course. Wanted to know if you were having fun at the gym."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "What did you tell her?"
"That Mommy was working very hard so you two could have a nice home." She pats my arm. "Don't look so worried, Joanna. She's fine. Happy. Loved."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The guest room door is cracked open. I push it wider and my heart immediately settles.
There she is. Daisy. My whole world. She's curled up under Mrs. Morrison's handmade quilt, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. Her dark blonde hair is spread across the pillow.
Her face is peaceful, lips slightly parted.
Three years old and already the strongest person I know.
I gather her into my arms. She stirs, makes a small sound, but doesn't wake. Just curls against my chest like she belongs there. Which she does. Always.
"Thank you," I whisper to Mrs. Morrison. "For everything."
"Anytime, dear. You know that."
I carry Daisy to the car, buckle her into her car seat, and drive the three blocks home. She doesn't wake up during the transfer to her bed, our bed, really, since the apartment only has one bedroom. I tuck her in, kiss her forehead, and finally let myself breathe.
We're safe. We're home. Everything's okay.
I crawl into bed next to her, still wearing my clothes because I'm too exhausted to change. Daisy shifts, finds my hand in the darkness, holds on tight.
And despite everything, the job, the fear, the exhaustion, I fall asleep smiling.
Three days later
I'm running late.
"Mama, where's Mr. Flopsy?" Daisy's standing in the middle of our tiny kitchen, lower lip trembling. Mr. Flopsy is the rabbit. We can't leave without him.
"Check under your pillow, baby," I say, shoving my feet into my sneakers.
She runs to the bed and emerges victorious, rabbit held high. "Found him!"
"Good girl. Come on, we gotta go."
I grab my backpack, scoop Daisy onto my hip, and lock the apartment behind us. Mrs. Morrison's expecting us in ten minutes, and I'm supposed to be at the Pit in thirty. It's going to be tight.
But tonight's Danny's fight.
I'd checked the schedule three times to make sure. brUISER VS. RIOT. Eight o'clock. I'd traded shifts with Marcus so I could work tonight instead of tomorrow. Told him I needed the extra money, which isn't even a lie. I always need extra money.
But that's not why I'm going.
I need to thank Danny. Properly. Not just a rushed whisper in a parking lot while I'm half-terrified and completely overwhelmed. I need him to know that what he did mattered. That I'm grateful.
Even if the rules say I can't talk to fighters before their matches.
Daisy chatters the whole drive to Mrs. Morrison's, telling me about a cartoon she watched and a picture she drew and how she wants pancakes for breakfast tomorrow. I make appropriate sounds, ask questions, try to be present even though my mind keeps drifting to the warehouse.
To Danny.
I've been working every night since that first incident.
Cleaning up after Reckless, after Rampage, after a dozen other fighters whose names I barely remember.
But none of them are Danny. None of them look at me the way he did.
None of them make my stomach clench or my hands shake for entirely different reasons.
"Mama?" Daisy tugs on my sleeve. "We're here."
Right. I pull up outside Mrs. Morrison's house and help Daisy out of her car seat. She runs to the porch, already calling for "Miss Patricia," and I follow with her overnight bag.
"You're in a hurry tonight," Mrs. Morrison observes as Daisy disappears inside.
"Big crowd expected," I lie. Sort of. "More to clean."
She gives me a knowing look that makes me wonder exactly how transparent I am, but she just smiles. "Drive safe, dear."
I make it to the warehouse ten minutes late. The parking lot's already packed. Cars everywhere, motorcycles lined up near the entrance, the rumble of voices and engines mixing in the cold night air.
I can hear the crowd from here, that particular roar that means a fight's already in progress.
Danny's fight.
I park quickly, grab my cleaning supplies from the trunk, and hurry toward the entrance. The Riders at the door nod at me as I slip inside.
The warehouse is packed, bodies pressed together, everyone on their feet, screaming. I can barely see the Pit through the crowd but I can hear the announcer's voice crackling over the speakers.
"—ROUND TWO, AND RIOT'S LOOKING TO MAKE A COMEBACK—"
I weave through the crowd, heading for the storage closet, but my eyes keep drifting toward the center. I catch glimpses between people's heads. A flash of movement. The smack of flesh on flesh. More screaming.
I should go straight to the closet. Stash my stuff. Get ready for the cleanup that'll come after. That's what I'm here for.
But my feet carry me closer to the Pit instead. I find a gap between two groups of spectators and finally get a clear view.
Danny's in the ring, shirtless, body gleaming with sweat under the harsh lights. His opponent—Riot, lean and covered in tattoos—is fast, bouncing on his toes, throwing combinations that would overwhelm most fighters.
But Danny's not most fighters.
He absorbs a hit to his ribs without flinching. Takes another to his shoulder. Testing. Waiting. Those dark eyes are completely focused, tracking every movement like he's solving an equation written in violence.
Riot dances back, resets. Blood's already streaming from his nose. He comes in again, faster this time, desperate to land something significant.
Danny moves.
One step forward. One punch.
The sound of the impact echoes even over the crowd. Riot's head snaps back and he stumbles, trying to recover. But Danny's already following through. Another punch. Another. Each one precise, devastating, unstoppable.
This isn't rage. This is something else entirely. Control. Purpose. Violence distilled into terrible art. I should look away. This is brutal. Vicious. Everything I should be horrified by.
But I can't stop watching Danny. The way he moves. The deadly grace of something so powerful being so perfectly controlled. He's not trying to hurt Riot. He's trying to end this. Quickly. Efficiently.
Almost mercifully.
Riot gets a second wind, lands a solid combination that would drop most men. Danny's head rocks back from a particularly hard right cross. The crowd gasps.
He doesn't go down.
Doesn't even step back.
He just... keeps coming.
"Jesus," someone next to me mutters. "He's a fucking machine."
The bell rings. End of round two.
Both fighters return to their corners. Danny's face is impassive. No celebration. No showboating. He drinks water, lets someone check a cut above his eye, then stands perfectly still. That same stillness I've seen before. Like he's conserving energy. Preparing.
I should move. Should get to work. But I'm rooted to the spot.
The bell rings for round three.
They meet in the center. Riot comes out aggressive, knowing he needs a knockout to win this. He's throwing everything he has—hooks, uppercuts, combinations that blur together. Some land. Most don't.
Danny weathers the storm.
Then he sees his opening.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. Riot overextends on a hook. Danny slips inside his guard, plants his feet, and throws an uppercut that starts somewhere near his knees.
The sound when it connects is sickening.
Riot's feet leave the ground. Actually leave the ground. He crashes back down onto the mat and doesn't move.
The ref rushes in, starts counting.
"ONE... TWO... THREE..."
The crowd's screaming but it sounds distant. Underwater. All I can focus on is Danny. He's not celebrating. Not playing to the crowd. He's just standing there, hands at his sides, watching. Making sure Riot's okay.
"FOUR... FIVE... SIX..."
Riot stirs. Tries to push himself up. His arms are shaking.
"SEVEN... EIGHT..."
He makes it to his hands and knees. The crowd's going absolutely insane.
"NINE..."
Riot collapses back down.
"TEN!"
The bell rings.
"WINNER BY KNOCKOUT... brUISER!"