THIRTY EIGHT
F or the next two weeks, their routine stayed the same. Poison and Scorpion barely spoke except when he was instructing her. He had become her trainer, her drill sergeant, and nothing more. Every night from six until one, they trained in his boss’s gym. Her body ached constantly, every muscle screaming in protest, but Scorpion never held back, pushing her to her limits.
A week ago, she had moved out of his loft and returned to work. She had hoped that the distance would make him miss her, make him actually talk to her but it did nothing. It didn’t even lessen the intensity of their training sessions. Each night, she arrived at the gym, already exhausted from the day, and faced Scorpion’s relentless regimen. The once comforting silence between them had turned into a heavy, oppressive weight.
The two weeks were a blur of unrelenting training. Scorpion was a different man now—cold, distant, and solely focused on preparing her for her match against Reaper.
Every training session flipped through her mind like changing the channel on a TV.
Scorpion had stood before her, his eyes hard and unyielding. “We start with endurance,” he had said, pointing to the treadmill.
She had run until her legs felt like jelly, Scorpion’s gaze never leaving her.
“Faster,” he had ordered. “You need to be faster than Reaper.”
The next night, the boxing ring had become their battleground. “Your form is off,” he had criticized, his voice sharp. He had demonstrated a series of punches and kicks, moving with precision and power. “Do it again. Correctly.”
She had mimicked his movements, sweat pouring down her face. Each mistake was met with a stern correction, each improvement with a cold nod of approval.
Weights had been added to her regimen. “Strength is key,” he had stated, handing her dumbbells. “Reaper won’t hold back.”
She had lifted until her arms trembled, her muscles burning. He had pushed her further, his commands a steady stream of demands. “You have to be stronger.”
By the end of the first week, they had moved to hand-to-hand combat. His strikes were fast and brutal, forcing her to react with speed and accuracy.
“You’re too slow,” he had growled, knocking her to the mat.
She had gritted her teeth and got up, refusing to let him see her pain. Each time she hit the floor, she bounced back, more determined than before.
Agility drills had come next. He had set up an obstacle course, watching as she navigated it. “You need to be quicker,” he had barked.
She had stumbled, frustration mounting.
“Again!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty gym.
She had pushed herself, her body aching but never giving up. Scorpion had introduced grappling techniques. They wrestled on the mats, his grip like vices.
“You need to anticipate your opponent’s moves,” he had instructed, pinning her down.
She had struggled, learning to twist and turn out of his holds. Each time she freed herself, a tiny spark of pride flickered, quickly extinguished by his next challenge.
The end of their two-week regimen had arrived. Scorpion had watched as she ran through a series of drills, her movements more precise and powerful than when they had started.
“You’ve improved,” he had admitted, a rare glint of approval in his eyes.
But there was no time for celebration. He handed her a set of wraps and motioned to the ring. “Now, we spar.”
On the thirteenth night of training, she reached her breaking point. Scorpion had made her strike a wooden plank with her bare hands for the past half-hour. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the sweat, as her knuckles split and bled.
“Again!” His voice was relentless, echoing through the empty gym.
She tried, but her strength was nearly gone. “I can’t!” she pleaded, desperation in her voice.
“Again!” he commanded, his eyes cold and unforgiving.
Her arms felt like lead, her hands throbbing with pain.
“The pain is too much,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “The bone hasn’t even set properly yet!”
When she hesitated, he bellowed, “Again!”
That was the final straw. She couldn’t take it anymore. With a surge of anger, she kicked the plank he was holding. It flew from his grip, sending him crashing to the ground, the plank splitting in two.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage and exhaustion. “I can’t! It’s been two weeks, and Reaper hasn’t challenged me yet! I need to rest.”
Scorpion got to his feet, his face a mask of cold fury. He dusted himself off and grabbed another plank from the shelves, holding it out to her. “You wanted me to train you,” he sneered, his tone icy. “Again!”
“No!” she screamed, the frustration and pain exploding out of her. “I’ve had enough. I’m done. With the training, and with you.”
Her words echoed in the gym, hanging in the air. She turned and ran out, her heart pounding, grateful she had driven her bike there.
She hopped on it, not even bothering with a helmet. She sped away from him, her anger driving her faster and faster. The city lights blurred past as she pushed the limits, desperate to escape the frustration and pain.
Halfway home, her fury began to subside, replaced by the searing agony in her body. Her muscles ached, her knuckles throbbed, and every breath felt like fire. She tried to focus, but the pain was overwhelming. Her vision blurred, and her grip on the handlebars faltered. Before she could regain control, her bike veered sharply, crashing into the railings of a flyover.
The impact sent her flying, her body slamming against the fence. She barely missed an oncoming car, causing the driver to swerve wildly. The vehicle skidded, tires screeching, and came to a stop just a foot away from her. She lay there, stunned, her bike crumpled to her left.
Hot blood trickled down her cheek from a gash on her cheekbone. She winced, the metallic smell of copper filling her nostrils. Her head throbbed, and she cursed herself for not wearing her helmet. The adrenaline that had fueled her escape was now replaced by sharp, biting pain.
The driver of the black town car, wide-eyed and pale, scrambled out of his vehicle.
“Are you alright?” he shouted, his voice trembling.
A man with silver streaks running through his black hair stepped out from the backseat of the car. As she tried to sit up, he rushed toward her. The pounding of her blood echoed in her ears. He crouched next to her, and she squinted against the car’s headlights to see him. He appeared to be in his late fifties, his face etched with lines of concern. The driver, a much younger man in a uniform, also moved around the car toward her.
“I’ll call nine-one-one, Mister Yamatochi,” the driver said, pulling out his phone. The name struck a chord in her memory, but she couldn’t place it.
She touched her fingertips to her cheek, finding the source of the blood. The wetness on her skin was warm and sticky. Yamatochi pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Here, use this,” he said, his eyes kind but searching.
She took the handkerchief and pressed it to the cut on her cheek. The pain was sharp, but it grounded her. She glanced up at Yamatochi, trying to remember where she had heard his name before, when recognition hit her.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured, her mind racing even as her body throbbed with pain. “You’re an investor in the video game I designed.”
Memories of Scorpion flanking the elegant businessman at the game launch assaulted her mind, Yamatochi bowing to her.
Yamatochi’s expression flickered with recognition. “Miss Sloan, my apologies,” he said and bowed his head. “It took me a moment to recognize you in the darkness.
She nodded, the pieces slowly falling into place. She had seen him frequently around the office in the months leading up to the launch. But that seemed so far removed from her current reality, sprawled out on the cold pavement with blood trickling down her face.
“Are you alright, Miss Sloan?” Yamatochi asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.
“I’m fine,” she said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Just need a moment.”
Yamatochi looked unconvinced but didn’t press further. “My driver will take you to the hospital. You need to be checked out.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind but not necessary.” She pressed the handkerchief to her cheek, feeling the sting of the cut as she applied pressure.
Yamatochi’s eyes widened when he noticed her bruised hands, but he quickly composed himself.
“Are those injuries from the crash?” he asked, pointing to her hands.
She glanced down, seeing the damage Scorpion’s training had caused. Her knuckles were raw, the skin broken and bruised.
“No, sir,” she replied, hesitating for a moment. She should have lied; he would have questions.
“I’ve been training,” she tried to explain, realizing she had only given him more reason to inquire further.
“You’re not a fighter, are you?” Yamatochi asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But before she could respond, the driver intervened.
“I called the closest hospital, sir,” the driver said, bowing his head slightly. “They said an ambulance would take at least half an hour to arrive. I also arranged for someone to pick up her motorcycle.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine. If my bike still works, I’ll drive it home,” she protested, trying to get up, but Yamatochi placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Nonsense. I’ll have none of that,” he said. “We’ll drive you to the hospital to get checked out, and then we’ll take you home.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but Yamatochi cut her off.
“I assure you, Miss Sloan, I’m not going to kidnap you or hurt you. It’s the least we can do after nearly crushing you against this barricade.”
He rose to his feet. Bending down, he placed her arm around his neck, and carefully helped her to her feet. She tried to stand on her own, but her legs were too numb to carry her weight. When her knees buckled, he caught her and held her steady.
He looked at his driver. “Damian, how long will they take to come for the young lady’s motorcycle?”
“It’s Poison, sir. My name is Poison,” she introduced herself, leaning against him for support.
“They’ll be here within a few minutes, sir,” the young man replied.
“Well, Miss Poison, how about something strong for the pain?” Yamatochi offered as he helped her into the back of the car.
She winced as she tried to find a position that didn’t make her want to scream. Finally, she settled and answered, “It would be disrespectful to refuse, sir.”
To her surprise, Yamatochi laughed, a deep, sincere sound that seemed to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
“I know that, but if my nerves are rattled, I can only imagine how you feel. You could do with a drink.”
He opened a small cabinet beside him, revealing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Carefully, he poured a measure into each glass and handed one to her.
She hesitated, then took the glass. The burn of the whiskey seared down her throat, spreading a numbing comfort through her aching body.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, taking another long sip from the tumbler.
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry we must wait before getting you to a hospital, but we can’t leave your bike here,” Yamatochi apologized.
She waved her hand dismissively, too engrossed in the whiskey to respond appropriately.
“But you didn’t answer my question earlier. Are you a fighter?” Yamatochi persisted, his gaze steady.
She hesitated. “Depends on what type of fighter you mean, sir,” she replied, avoiding a direct answer.
At that moment, a pickup truck pulled up next to them, saving her from further probing. She knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
“Where should your bike be dropped off?” Yamatochi asked.
“Corner of Front street and Navy Pier,” she said, the rim of her whiskey glass almost empty.
Yamatochi repeated the address to the man standing by the window. The man bowed slightly, just like Damian had, and with Damian’s help, hoisted her bike onto the truck. Once the truck pulled away, Damian got into the car and started the engine. When they began moving, Yamatochi spoke again.
“You asked what type of fighters I know about,” he said. “I know about all of them, but I really hope you’re not part of the underground fighting scene.”
She choked on her last sip of whiskey, caught off guard by his words. She coughed, the burning sensation in her throat matching the sudden rush of anxiety.
Yamatochi’s eyes narrowed slightly, observing her reaction. “You are, aren’t you?” he said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes,” she admitted, not ashamed of who she was. “I am a streetfighter and a damn good one at that.”