TWO
P oison sped onto the curb in front of the venue, sending valets and guests scattering like field mice. The upper-class neighborhood slept beneath a blanket of another typical night. The monotony grated on her nerves. She’d rather face a dozen opponents in the ring than succumb to a life this mundane.
She took a moment to survey the scene—the glass building loomed above her like an enormous opponent. Flashbacks of high school house parties assaulted her as she scanned the cliques of attendees. Same hierarchy, same bullshit.
Executives mingled with investors. Admin staff—mostly beautiful secretaries and assistants—stood in judgment, gossiping behind their hands. The production team gathered at the bar, sipping whiskey, while the software engineers, the office’s shy nerds, huddled in the corner.
And then there was Melissa. Head of public relations and the office equivalent of a high school head cheerleader, she had a direct line to everyone—from the lowest IT support to the company’s CEO. Poison watched as Melissa threw her head back, laughing at something the CEO said.
Shaking her head, Poison swung a long leg over the saddle and dismounted her bike. She just wanted to get the evening over with and get back to the Quarry.
As she removed her helmet, her long black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. She checked her makeup in the visor. Her thick eyeliner held up, but her black lipstick had stayed behind on the Normal’s face.
Suppressing a smile, she applied another layer from the tube in her backpack. She pulled out her company card, slung the lanyard around her neck, and shouldered her bag.
When she looked up, everyone was staring. She let a feline smile curl across her lips.
Humans always feared what they didn’t understand, and their expressions showed it—fear and resentment twisted their faces into near-constipated looks.
She thrived on it. In the Quarry, she was used to being underestimated. As a female fighter, toxic masculinity was her constant opponent. Every man thought he’d be the one to take her down. But out here, among the Normals, she was something else—an instant threat to their perfect little world. Her pale skin, midnight hair, black clothes, and matching makeup made her a freak in their eyes. It kept them at arm’s length, and that’s exactly how she preferred it.
A valet boy had the balls to approach her with an outstretched hand, eager to park her Ducati Panigale V4. She rewarded his courage by tossing the keys into his open palm.
“Just don’t crash it,” she teased with a wink as she strode toward the glass-framed building.
His expression said it all—he understood the threat laced in her words as he scurried away.
Every guest, even her colleagues, stepped aside to let her pass. Not even the private security at the entrance dared to stop her.
With her head held high, she made her way through the building, and even the music seemed to dim in her presence. She strolled to the bar on the left, and the production team immediately stood and moved out of her way.
Signaling the bartender, she called over the pounding music, “Two shots of vodka.”
He complied quickly, filling two glasses to the brim
and sliding them across the counter. She pushed one toward him, lifted the other, and downed it in one swift motion. Placing the empty glass in front of him, she leaned her forearms on the marble.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she mused.
Despite his initial apprehension—likely because she’d chased away his regulars—he seemed intrigued.
“If you keep my glass full tonight, I’ll make sure your hands are full by the end of the night.”
Her eyes darkened as she looked up at him through her lashes. He visibly swallowed, and a flirtatious smile tugged at her lips. With a slight nod, the bartender refilled her glass. She took it, turning to study the crowd.
She had no intention of showing the bartender a good time. Part of her wished she hadn’t fucked the Normal and waited to meet him instead. He was cute enough, but she knew she’d end up just as disappointed and unsatisfied.
The CEO of VirtuaCraft Studios caught her eye, waving her over to join their group. With a sigh, she downed her second shot and waited for the bartender to refill her glass before pushing away from the counter.
She took her time weaving through the crowd, relishing the way people stepped aside to let her pass.
“There she is!” her boss beamed as she neared. “Our fearless and somewhat quirky project leader.” He laughed at his own joke, slapping his knee like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
She glared at him, and he immediately snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clacking together. Clearing his throat, he waved a hand toward the investors surrounding him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the group, “this is Miss Minke Sloan. She’s the reason we get to drink tonight.”
By the smell of alcohol clinging to him—he’d clearly had one too many already—but she simply nodded at the onlookers. The man to her right, flanked by two bodyguards, turned his attention to her. How had she not noticed them before? The room was crawling with men in suits, all sporting earpieces.
“So the idea for Shadow Strike was yours?”
His raised eyebrow infuriated her. What? —did she not look capable of developing a first-person fighting game?
“Yes,” she replied, her pride sharp and clear. “Everything—from storyline to characters to code development—was my handiwork.” The man’s expression remained unmoved, unfazed by the venom in her voice.
“I told you she’s a feisty one, didn’t I?” her boss boomed, breaking the tension between her and the man with the bodyguards.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she hissed, hating the forced formality.
She downed the shot she still held and shoved the empty glass into the hand of the nearest bodyguard, and as she turned on her heel, she heard the guards laughing. “Look who’s been promoted to busboy, Scor.”
The last she heard was someone telling a man named Damian to fuck off.
The voices in her mind swelled, each one demanding attention, their chaotic whispers and shouts merging into a deafening roar that drowned out everything else. It overwhelmed her, numbing her senses to the point that she didn’t even notice Melissa until she almost collided with her near the fountain in the center of the hall. As usual, Melissa was surrounded by a few of the admin ladies, their eyes tracking the room like watchdogs.
“Well, well, well…” Melissa flashed a toothpaste-commercial smile. “Bet you just loved your moment in the sun back there, didn’t you, Sloan?” She crossed her arms, standing her ground.
Poison rolled her eyes, trying to walk past her. Melissa wasn’t worth the time or energy.
“Careful,” Melissa hissed. “Fly too close to the sun, and you might get burned.”
Poison stopped, turning slightly to meet Melissa’s gaze, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
“The sun? Please, Melissa. I prefer the heat of battle to the warmth of the spotlight. But you? Be careful not to melt under all those bright lights you crave so much. After all, plastic is flammable.” Her tone dripped with amusement and disdain.
Melissa’s smile faltered, her composure shaken for a moment. But she recovered quickly, though the smile never quite reached her eyes.
“Oh, I don’t melt—I thrive. After all, it’s not the lights that make the star; it’s the darkness they outshine.”
Poison’s smirk widened. “Well, twinkle, twinkle, little bitch.”
Melissa’s facade cracked, her smile giving way to a flash of fury. Without a word, she lunged, hand raised to strike. But Poison, anticipating the move like the seasoned fighter she was, caught Melissa’s wrist mid-air. In one fluid motion, she twisted her arm behind her back, immobilizing her.
“Really, Melissa? Violence?” she whispered, dangerously close to Melissa’s ear, her grip tightening. “I thought you preferred battles of wit. But then again, you’d be unarmed in that fight as well, wouldn’t you? Let’s not ruin your perfect manicure. We both know how much you hate breaking a nail.”
Her words dripped with sarcasm as she held Melissa just tight enough to prove her point.
Poison’s eyes lifted, when she realized the crowd around them had gone silent. Their confrontation had drawn an audience, a fact that only registered when she caught sight of Melissa’s long-term boyfriend, Blake, standing at the forefront, his face twisted in disgust.
“Hey! Back off, you psycho!” he barked, his voice slicing through the tension, though he didn’t dare take a
step forward.
His voice carried a false bravery that his eyes—wide with fear—couldn’t match. Poison’s gaze hardened at the insult, her eyes narrowing. But before she could respond, a voice rang out like thunder:
“Leave her alone!”
Every eye turned to the source—a dark figure, a security guard, charging through the crowd with fierce determination. Chaos erupted as he landed a solid punch to Blake’s jaw, sending him crashing to the ground with a force that echoed off the glass walls.
Poison, momentarily stunned, scrambled to regain her composure. She realized she still had Melissa’s arm twisted behind her back and, listening to a flicker of reason, released her. With a quick shove—more reflex than intention—she sent Melissa stumbling backward into the fountain with a splash that drowned out the escalating conflict.
Other security guards rushed in, trying to pull the guard off Blake. Four against one. That wasn’t exactly fair.
Turning her attention back to the fight, Poison moved with fluidity. She darted forward, grabbing the first guard off her ally’s back and using her momentum to slam him into the ground with a loud thud. The crowd, now a mix of cheers and gasps, formed a circle around the spectacle, cellphone cameras capturing every second.
Blake, scrambling to his feet in a daze, swung a wild punch at her. She was ready, her body coiled like a viper.
Using her ally’s back for leverage, she launched a powerful roundhouse kick, the bridge of her foot connecting with the side of Blake’s head, just behind his left ear. The impact sent him tumbling once again.
For a moment, the world slowed as she and the guard stood back to back, facing their attackers. A fist flew toward her, aimed true, but the guard dipped her low in a swift, graceful arc, her body hovering inches from the ground. Their movements were instinctive, as if they’d fought together for years.
Another attacker charged, only to be met with her ally’s solid arm, clotheslining him across the chest and sending him sprawling.
The last security guard made a desperate move, rushing at them from the side. With synchronized steps forward, Poison and her ally let him pass, his momentum carrying him headfirst into a pillar. The thud of his collapse was the final note in the cacophony of the fight. As he crumpled to the ground, the area around them cleared, an unmistakable mix of fear and respect emanating from the onlookers.
As the dust settled and the crowd’s excitement dimmed to murmurs of awe, Poison, and the dark figure stood alone, backs to each other in a clearing of bodies. She glanced over her shoulder, noting the small cut on his lower lip and the fire still burning in his eyes. He wiped the blood away casually with the back of his hand, standing tall and unfazed. Together, they turned to face
the crowd, a silent challenge hanging between them.
“Anyone else wants a piece of us?” the figure growled, his voice echoing with warning. The silence that followed was answer enough.
“I thought so,” he snorted, dismissing them as the tension broke and no one dared to step forward.
With a final glance at Blake, still nursing his wounded pride on the ground, the figure turned to her.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, the adrenaline fading as the moment began to settle.
The security guard gently grasped her arm, guiding her through the building and away from the chaos. They moved through the now docile crowd, leaving behind the event’s noise and Melissa’s resentful shrieks from the fountain.
The night air felt cooler as they stepped onto the street. Releasing her arm, the guard turned to face her, and for the first time, she really looked at him.
The streetlight illuminated his features, revealing a handsomeness she hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment. His intense, curious gaze held hers.
Even under the streetlight’s glow, his eyes remained strikingly dark, mirroring the starless sky above. A ghost of the devilish passion she’d seen earlier still flickered in those black, bottomless depths, yet there was something more—a flicker of recognition. An unsettling familiarity tugged at the edges of her memory, hovering just out of reach.
She pushed the thought away, taking in every detail. Her eyes traced from his raven-dark gaze down to a sculpted nose and full lips. His chiseled jawline framed a slightly dimpled chin covered in shadowy stubble. Beneath that sharp jaw, tattoos peeked out from his collar and black tie. For a moment, she marveled at his black suit—still intact after the fight—and his white dress shirt, spotlessly clean, the fabric pulled tight over his lean, muscled chest.
“Want to take a walk?” he asked, his deep, gravelly voice sending shivers down her spine. Each word carried a blend of raw power and dark allure.
His gaze flickered momentarily back to the building, his stance guarded. The casual rub of his neck felt more like a calculated move than any real sign of unease.
“Sure,” she replied, clearing her throat as she tried to steady the thoughts that made her heart race against her ribcage.
She caught herself staring at him, warmth creeping into her cheeks—a rare occurrence that took her by surprise. Fuck, he’s beyond sexy. There was no other way to describe him. He looked like he’d been carved from marble by Michelangelo himself.
As she observed him more closely, she realized his guardedness wasn’t from discomfort, but from a cautious assessment of their surroundings—a trait no doubt honed through countless confrontations as a security guard.
“I’ll just text a friend to come get my bike,” she said,
retrieving her phone. “Wouldn’t want to risk any… unexpected incidents. Barbie might set it on fire.”
She quickly sent a message to Skeldon, her loyal second-in-command, knowing he’d be here in minutes.
The man in front of her waited patiently as she slipped her phone back into her bag. When they started walking, each of his steps was measured and vigilant, as though expecting an attack at any moment.
The night around them seemed to hold its breath. Silence wrapped around them, stretching endlessly into the darkness. She lost track of time—minutes, maybe hours—blurring together. An awkward tension crept in, thickening the air between them, yet the dark figure beside her remained unmoving, his vigilance sharpening into something deeper, more pronounced.
The weight of the silence pressed down, heavy like an opponent’s knee on her chest. Finally, she shattered it. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded toward the now-distant venue.
“Thanks for sticking up for me back there,” she said, her voice slicing through the quiet, acknowledging the chaos they’d left behind.
When she lifted her gaze, she found his already on her, curiosity and wariness swirling in the dark depths. The intensity of his stare—cautious yet undeniably focused—suggested he was weighing her every word, every gesture, as if she were an opponent he couldn’t quite figure out.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, his raspy voice tinged with uncertainty.
He hesitated, hand reaching up to scratch the back neck, as if weighing his next words.
“But I’ve got to know,” he continued, a furrow knitting his brow as if he wrestled with an internal question. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
The question lingered in the air, edged with concern.
“Your moves were seriously impressive,” he added, admiration slipping into his tone, though it seemed as much for himself as for her.
She stopped, raising an eyebrow at him. “Why do you sound so surprised? Didn’t think a woman could fight?” she challenged, crossing her arms.
He raised his palms in surrender. “Not what I meant.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen my share of lethal female fighters, but you…” He trailed off, visibly weighing his next words.
She could see the struggle in his eyes. He started walking again, and just when she thought he wouldn’t finish his thought, the words tumbled out:
“You’re different,” he blurted, his voice rushed but certain.
His gaze met hers, earnest and intense, as if he was trying to convey an ocean of meaning beyond words. “There’s something about the way you fight… It’s not just
skill. It’s like you’re telling a story with every move. Like something’s driving you—something deeper than survival or ambition.”
His observation struck a chord, resonating within her. Poison, arms still crossed, let a small, intrigued smile tug at the corners of her mouth. His observation had cut deeper than she expected, touching on something she rarely acknowledged—even to herself. Her fighting style was a narrative, a physical manifestation of her journey, her losses, and her victories. And somehow, in the short time he’d watched her, he saw it. He saw more than anyone else ever had.
She paused, contemplating her response. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, bracing for the consequences of telling him the truth.
“I’m a streetfighter,” she said, her tone flat, matter-of-fact.
He physically stepped back, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Regret instantly filled her lungs. She waited for the inevitable onslaught of questions—but none came. Fuck. What had she done? Normals weren’t supposed to know. The Underground had its own rules, and there were much darker players who wouldn’t be pleased if someone tampered with their operations. Grasping for control, she pushed forward.
“I take it being in security has taught you a thing or two?”
That seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He shook his head, staring off into the distance. No—not staring. He was surveying again.
“I’m a fighter as well,” he murmured, avoiding eye contact.
Now it was her turn to be surprised. She had pegged him as just a security guard.
When their eyes finally locked, a storm of emotions swirled between them—amazement, surprise, and a lingering caution that darkened his gaze.
Her mind raced with questions. What if he belonged to a rival crew? Or worse, a rival territory? What if they weren’t supposed to be this close? Adrenaline surged through her veins, as if she were back in the ring, preparing for a fight.
“I’m Poison,” she found herself saying, a belated introduction to anchor herself in the moment, to dispel the swirling, unanswered questions.
“Scorpion,” he replied, his expression flickering with confusion and wariness.
At the mention of his name, a wave of relief washed over her. Scorpion. She knew that name well—not as an adversary, but as a legend in the underground fighting world.
To stand before such a figure, exchanging names and tentative trust, was to bridge worlds she once thought would never intersect.
She stood before a man she had only heard about, a man worshiped in the circles she fought within.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, her smile widening, a little star-struck by his reputation. “About you and your handiwork. You’re a fucking legend in most rings.”
The shift in his demeanor was sudden, like a wildfire igniting just beneath the surface.
“Yeah, thanks. Listen, I have to go this way,” he said abruptly, gesturing toward a path leading away from where she needed to go. His tone was curt, almost cold.
“Nice meeting you,” he added, though the briskness of his voice undermined the sentiment.
Before she could respond, he turned sharply and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the shadows.
Poison stood there, a knot of confusion and disappointment twisting in her stomach. The sudden distance he’d put between them hit like a punch to the gut, leaving her to wonder what had changed so abruptly, what word or look had tipped the balance.
“Well, good-fucking-bye to you too,” she mumbled into the darkness.