Chapter 17
JENNA
Ten days.
Ten days since I escaped that warehouse in stolen clothes, ten days of keeping my head down in this underground fight circuit, ten days of telling myself that the ache in my chest is relief and not a more sinister feeling.
My knuckles sting as I unwrap the tape from my hands, flexing fingers that throb with the memory of tonight’s sparring session.
The gym reeks of sweat and blood and desperation—scents I’ve learned to find comforting.
At least here, violence has rules. Clear boundaries. Win or lose, but nothing in between.
“Not bad for someone who’s been out of practice.” Rico, the gym’s owner, tosses me a towel from behind the makeshift bar. He’s maybe fifty, built like a brick wall, with scar tissue over both eyes from his own fighting days. “You’ve got real potential, Kathy.”
Kathy.
Jenna Reeves died the night she walked out of that warehouse. What’s left is someone harder, someone who doesn’t flinch when fists come flying.
I catch the towel, wiping sweat from my face. “Thanks. When’s the next card?”
“Tomorrow night. You ready for that?”
Am I? I’ve been training for a week, getting my body back to where it was three years ago when underground fighting paid my rent and kept me invisible for eight months. My muscles remember the movements—duck, weave, strike—but there’s something else driving me now.
“I’m ready.”
“Good. You’re fighting Maya Chen. Flyweight, but don’t let that fool you. Girl’s got hands like hammers.”
I nod, already running through what I know about her. Fast, technical, likes to work the body before going for the head. I watched her last fight from the stands, studying for weaknesses exactly how I searched for Nikolai’s.
Stop.
I slam that thought down before it can take root. I’m not thinking about him. About the way his hands felt on my skin or the sound he made when I said his name. I’m not thinking about his eyes or the tremor in his voice when he called me beautiful.
I’m especially not thinking about how I wake up every morning with my hand between my legs and his name on my lips.
“Kathy?”
Rico’s voice snaps me back to the present. He’s watching me with concern, probably wondering why I went quiet for so long.
“Sorry. Just thinking about strategy.”
“Good. Keep that focus.” He leans against the bar, arms crossed. “You got somewhere to crash tonight? Because if you’re sleeping rough—”
“I’m good.” I’ve got a room three blocks from here, paid for with money I earned cleaning dishes at a restaurant that doesn’t ask for ID. It’s not much—a bed, a sink, a window that doesn’t close properly—but it’s mine.
More importantly, it’s not a concrete cell.
The gym empties out as the evening crowd heads home to lives I can’t imagine having. Normal lives, with people who care if they come back. I take my time packing my gear, letting the space settle into quiet around me.
“You sure you’re okay?” Rico’s still watching me.
“Just tired.” Another lie. I’m not tired—I’m wired, energy crackling under my skin like an electric storm. The sparring helped, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough anymore.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe me. “Lock up when you leave, yeah?”
I nod, and he heads out through the back exit. The lock clicks behind him, leaving me alone with the heavy bags.
I should go back to my room. Shower off the sweat and try to sleep. But instead, I find myself back at the heavy bag, bare knuckles connecting with leather in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
Jab, cross, hook. The combination flows like water, muscle memory taking over. Duck, uppercut, step back.
Each impact sends a vibration up my arms and loosens the tightness in my chest. This is what I need—not the careful distance I maintained for three years, not the invisible life of overnight shifts. I need to hit something. Need to feel my body move with purpose.
I need to remember who I was before he took me. Hell, I need to remember who I was before my stepfather ruined me.
The bag swings with each strike, chains creaking overhead. I imagine it’s his face—those perfect features twisted with surprise when he woke up and found me gone. Is he looking for me?
Of course he’s looking.
The thought sends heat racing through my veins. He’d promised to tie me to his bed, to keep me there until I forgot my own name and was pregnant with his baby. The memory of his voice, rough with possession, makes my core clench involuntarily.
Fuck.
I hit the bag harder, trying to drive out the memories. But they keep coming—his hands on my throat, the weight of him between my thighs, the way he’d looked at me without the mask like I was something precious and terrible all at once.
The bag splits open under my knuckles, sand spilling across the gym floor in a steady stream. I step back, chest heaving, and stare at the damage. Rico’s not going to be happy about this.
But the violence worked. For the first time in days, my head feels clear.
I grab my phone from the bench and scroll through the encrypted messages I’ve been collecting. Names, faces, locations—a web of human trafficking that stretches across three states. What started as research into my own captivity has become a hunt.
An obsession.
The first name I found was Kim Chen—Maya’s older brother, as it turns out. Small operation compared to what I glimpsed of Nikolai’s network, but Chen moves maybe fifty girls a year through his massage parlors. Young ones, mostly runaways who won’t be missed.
Just like I wouldn’t have been missed.
I pull up the photos I took outside his Chinatown office yesterday. Chen’s predictable—same route to work every morning, same coffee shop, same parking spot. He thinks money makes him untouchable, but money just makes you visible to people who know how to look.
My phone buzzes with a text from Danny, a street kid I’ve been paying for information.
Found your guy. Meeting tonight at Red Dragon. Back room, 11:00 PM.
Perfect. Chen’s been trying to arrange a new shipment, and tonight I’ll be close enough to document everything. Not just for the police—they’re either bought or overwhelmed. This is for me.
I clean up the sand as best I can and lock the gym behind me. The October air cuts through my tank top, but I welcome the cold. It keeps me sharp.
The walk back to my room takes me through territory I’ve memorized—every alley, every escape route, every place someone could wait in ambush. Years of hiding taught me to be invisible. These past weeks have taught me to be dangerous.
My room’s as I left it: door still locked, thread still wedged in the window frame, no signs of disturbance. But I check anyway, running through the same security routine I always do.
The laptop I bought with fight winnings sits on the small table, screen dark but processing data I’ve been feeding it since I escaped. Chen’s operation, his associates, his patterns—I’ve mapped it all with the same obsessive detail Nikolai probably used on me.
Don’t think about him.
But it’s too late. The thought’s already there, spreading like poison through my system. Does he know what I’m doing? Has he figured out that his captive prey became a hunter?
I hope so. I hope it keeps him awake at night.
The shower water runs brown at first but it clears eventually. I stand under the spray and let it wash away the gym’s sweat while my mind works through tonight’s plan.
Chen’s meeting is about a new route through Detroit. Young girls from broken homes were promised modeling contracts or restaurant jobs. The same lies they’ve probably been telling for decades, refined to perfection.
I towel off and dress in black—jeans, hoodie, boots with rubber soles. The knife goes in my boot, small enough to miss in a casual search but sharp enough to open arteries.
My reflection in the cracked mirror shows someone I barely recognize. The woman who worked overnight at a pharmacy, who jumped at shadows and lived on instant ramen, is gone. What’s left has harder edges, colder eyes.
The Red Dragon sits between a pawn shop and a check-cashing place, neon sign flickering against the darkness. I circle the block twice, noting exits and sight lines, before settling into position across the street.
At 10:47 PM, a black Escalade pulls up. Chen steps out first—short, soft around the middle, expensive suit that screams new money. Two bodyguards follow, scanning the street with the lazy confidence of men who’ve never faced real danger.
They have no idea what real danger looks like.
I wait until they disappear inside, then cross the street. The restaurant’s front entrance leads to a narrow hallway lined with private dining rooms. Chen’s voice carries from the back. Twenty thousand per head, delivery next week.
I press myself against the wall outside their door and activate my phone’s recording app. Every word, every detail. When this is over, Chen’s entire operation will collapse.
But recording isn’t enough anymore. These men deserve more than prison—they deserve to understand what it feels like to be prey.
My hand finds the knife’s handle as Chen’s laughter echoes through the thin walls. Soon, he’ll learn that when people are caged, it changes something in them. And he doesn’t deserve to keep breathing after what he’s done to women like me.