SEVENTEEN
F ury surged through Phillip like a wildfire, igniting every fiber of his being as he tore through the darkened streets. His grip on the handlebars was white-knuckled, the roar of the engine drowned out by the pounding of his heart. How could it have been Poison? How could she have been the one to take Rex from him?
The thought twisted like a dagger in his chest, each breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to make sense of the betrayal.
Poison had been the first person he allowed himself to care for since Rex’s death, the one he had dared to trust in a world consumed by darkness.
But now, all semblance of trust had been shattered, replaced by a seething rage that threatened to consume him whole. He didn’t care about Poison anymore, didn’t care about anything except making her pay for the pain she had caused.
As he raced through the streets, Phillip’s mind churned, each passing moment fueling his determination to see justice served. He needed an outlet for his anger, a way to unleash the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
The Temple loomed before him like a beacon of solace, its familiar sights, and sounds offering a temporary respite from the storm raging inside him. With a sense of grim satisfaction, Phillip pulled into the parking lot and made his way toward the Temple.
The arena was a hive of activity, the scent of sweat and adrenaline assaulted his senses. Phillip’s fists clenched at his sides as he pushed his way through the crowd, his gaze fixed on the blood-soaked ring ahead.
Each step brought him closer to the side door guarded by a stern-faced security guard.
As he approached, the guard’s steely gaze dropped, a silent acknowledgment of his authority. With a nod, the guard swung the door open, granting him passage with a curt gesture.
Ascending the narrow staircase, the sound of the crowd faded into a distant murmur when he reached the top, the world outside reduced to a mere backdrop to the
chaos unfolding within him.
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the sleek interior of the private viewing box. Floor-to-ceiling glass panels framed the arena below, casting a surreal glow over the fighters locked in combat.
To his left, a fully stocked bar gleamed invitingly, its array of bottles promising an escape. To his right, a desk cluttered with paperwork stood as a silent witness to the unseen workings of the underworld. And in the center of it all, an oversized leather couch.
Kitiara sat on the couch, looking at the fight below, her black hair scraping her shoulders.
With a soft click, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room’s stillness. The metallic clang of the door startled Kitiara, her hand darting instinctively to the CZ PO7 pistol at her side.
Reflexes honed by a lifetime of survival kicked in, propelling him forward in a blur of motion. In an instant, he disarmed the woman, his movements fluid and precise as he pinned her against the sofa, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared into her startled eyes.
“Do you have a death wish or something?” Kitiara’s voice sliced through the tension.
Her tone edged with concern as she reclaimed her pistol from Phillip’s grasp, sliding it back into its holster with practiced ease.
Phillip’s jaw clenched at her question, his muscles tensing beneath the weight of his pent-up fury. He didn’t
have a death wish; he had something far more dangerous.
“No, just a hit list,” he muttered.
His words were heavy as he sank onto the couch beside Kitiara, his elbows resting on his knees.
Kitiara’s hand moved to touch his shoulder, a gesture of comfort. But he recoiled from her touch, the memory of his brother’s death burning like a brand in his mind.
“I found Double R’s killer,” he growled, the words tasting bitter on his tongue as he clenched his fists, the sharp crack of his knuckles punctuating the.
Kitiara’s eyes widened, and then her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Why didn’t you start with that?” her voice rose with frustration.
Her hand shot to the air as she signaled something, and Phillip only then noticed the guard in the corner. Fuck, he was so blinded by fury that his vigilance was slipping.
He waved off the guard she had signaled, his gaze never leaving Kitiara as he delivered the damning truth.
“It’s Poison,” he spat the words like venom, the bitterness of the betrayal like ash on his tongue and Kitiara reached for her pistol.
“Put away your gun. I will kill her with my bare hands,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion as he stared into the depth of his own rage.
Kitiara’s disbelief was evident, her shock mirrored
in the furrow of her brow.
“Are you sure?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“How do you know?” Her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“She’s the leader of the Silver Serpents,” he spat the words like fire.
“The Silver Serpents? Shadow’s crew?” Kitiara’s tone sounded skeptical, and a flicker of doubt danced behind her eyes.
He caught the subtle shift in her demeanor, how her voice faltered ever so slightly at the mention of Shadow’s crew. There was something she wasn’t saying, something lurking beneath the surface.
Before he could stop his curiosity, he asked: “How do you know him?”
But Kitiara avoided the question. “She was the one that killed Shadow for his territory?” Her words were laced with righteous fury. He could see a simmering anger bubbling up from deep within her.
“No,” He shook his head. “Shadow was her brother. Some other guy killed him. Poison just took over.”
Kitiara’s breath caught in her throat, the rage in her eyes dissipating like smoke in the wind. She sank back onto the couch.
“Are you absolutely sure she’s the one that killed Double R? I mean; the girl I saw didn’t look like she could
take him down. Shit, even you struggled against him.”
“I’m dead sure, and soon enough… she will be dead. I will make her pay for what she has done.” His voice was a low growl, his anger boiling over like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
He felt the pull of his rage like a physical force, urging him to action, to seek out Poison and exact his vengeance upon her without mercy or remorse.
But Kitiara’s words cut through the haze of his fury like a katana through flesh.
“Phillip, think about this for a moment. I mean, it is Poison that we’re talking about here.” Her words were a plea for reason in the face of overwhelming emotion.
“All I have done for the past four years is think about it, Kitiara! Thanks to her, I not only lost my brother, but my whole fucking life went up to shit.” His voice cracked with emotion.
“How about you get in the ring and blow off some steam?” she suggested.
“I could do with some skull smashing,” he said grimly, his fingers flexing.
He launched himself off the couch, his muscles twisted with tension as he strode toward the door. Kitiara fell into step beside him.
“I’ll let them know downstairs so they can get you a challenger,” she offered.
“Better put in three at the same time, then,” he snorted, the bitter edge of sarcasm lacing his voice.
With a heavy sigh, he descended the stairs, each step a resounding echo of his inner turmoil. He had hoped that Kitiara’s presence would quell the storm raging within him, but instead, it only fueled the flames.
He pushed open the bottom door with force, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea, his mind consumed by thoughts of retribution.
He walked with purpose toward the ring, the siren calls of combat ringing in his ears. Two fighters clashed in a brutal showcase of violence, their bodies moving lethally as they battled for dominance.
Phillip knew it was against arena rules to enter the ring when there was a fight in progress, but at that moment, rules meant nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was his burning need for blood, his desperate hunger for justice.
With a primal roar, he climbed into the ring, his movements fueled by rage and despair. Without hesitation, he seized the nearest fighter and hurled him from the ring with a savage strength born of desperation.
Turning to face the remaining fighter, his eyes burned with fierce intensity. His fists clenched at his sides as he prepared to unleash his fury upon his unwitting opponent. The nomad hesitated momentarily, taken aback by his sudden appearance, but then he squared his shoulders and braced himself for the onslaught.
He may not be able to bring back his brother, may not be able to undo the pain and suffering that Poison had caused, but in that ring, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, he found a fleeting sense of relief, a momentary reprieve from the relentless agony of his grief.
Phillip’s muscles tensed as he faced off against his opponent, his breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. With a steely glint in his eyes, he locked onto his target, every fiber of his being focused.
As the nomad lunged forward with a ferocious right hook, Phillip’s instincts kicked in, his body moving with lightning speed to evade the blow. With a lithe sidestep, he slipped past the punch.
Seizing the opportunity, he retaliated with a swift jab to his opponent’s ribs, the impact sending a jolt of pain through the nomad’s body. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the arena as Phillip’s fist connected with its target.
But the nomad quickly recovered, his determination shining through the haze of pain. With a guttural growl, he launched a flurry of punches at Phillip’s head and torso, each blow coming faster and harder than the last.
But Phillip danced on the edge of danger, his reflexes honed to razor-sharp precision as he dodged and weaved through the onslaught of attacks. With each movement, he calculated his next move, his mind working in perfect harmony with his body.
Feeling the heat of battle coursing through his veins, Phillip seized the moment to strike. With a lightning-fast kick, he aimed for his opponent’s knee, his foot connecting with bone-jarring force. The nomad stumbled back, his leg buckling beneath him as he fought to maintain his balance.
But Phillip was relentless, his movements fueled by a primal need for victory. With a fierce cry, he closed the distance between them in an instant, his fists a blur of motion as he unleashed punch after punch upon his opponent.
Each blow landed with deadly accuracy, the force of his strikes driving the nomad back with each hit. With each punch and kick, he chipped away at his opponent’s defenses, wearing him down bit by bit.
And then, with a final, crushing blow, Phillip delivered the knockout strike, his fist connecting with the nomad’s jaw with bone-shattering force. The sound of impact reverberated through the arena, a symphony of triumph and victory.
But Phillip didn’t stop. He unleashed his fury upon the fallen nomad, his fists raining down upon his defenseless opponent with relentless ferocity. Landing blow after blow.
As he pummeled the nomad into submission, bloodlust coursed through his veins, his vision clouded with a red haze of rage. He was consumed by the need to inflict pain, to unleash his pent-up frustration upon his victim.
The nomad curled into the fetal position, his arms
raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself from Phillip’s onslaught. But Phillip did not heed his cries for mercy, his relentless assault fueled by an insatiable.
Even after the nomad had lost consciousness, he continued to rain down blows upon his motionless form, his fists moving like pistons as he unleashed his fury.
The arena fell silent, the air thick with tension as Kitiara watched from her box, her expression unreadable. She knew that Phillip had crossed a dangerous line, that his actions threatened to spiral out of control.
Sending her guards to intervene, she watched as they rushed into the ring, their faces set in grim determination. They struggled to restrain Phillip, their efforts hampered by his sheer strength and determination.
It took six men to finally pin Phillip to the ground, their bodies straining against his as they fought to subdue him. Even then, he continued to struggle, his defiance unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds.
As Kitiara stepped into the ring, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. The guards bowed their heads in deference to her authority as she approached.
But Phillip remained defiant, his gaze locked with Kitiara’s as he didn’t surrender amidst the chaos he had wrought. He may have crossed a line, but he refused to back down, his pride and stubbornness refusing to yield to her authority.
“When I said ‘ blow off some steam’ , I didn’t mean you should kill one of my fighters,” Kitiara said.
“He’s still breathing,” he scoffed, his tone insolent as he brushed off her reprimand.
Kitiara’s expression hardened, her gaze piercing as she met his stare. “You showed plain disregard for our rules, Scorpion. Leave now, and once you are calm, I’ll consider allowing you back in.”
His jaw clenched as he glared at her, his chest heaving with exertion. “I won’t stop until she pays for what she’s done,” he growled.
Kitiara’s expression softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. “She will pay, but not like this. You’re jeopardizing everything you’ve worked for.”
With a final glare, Kitiara ordered Phillip to leave, her tone leaving no room for argument. The guards let go of him, and he jumped to his feet.
“Walk it off, Scor,” Damian said to his left. Phillip hadn’t even notice that he was part of the guards pinning him down. With a violent shove, he pushed Damian’s hand away that was reaching for his elbow.
“Fuck off, Damian. You’re not the ring leader anymore.”
“That’s right,” Kitiara interjected. “I am, and I am telling you to get the fuck out of my ring.”
Phillip’s muscles tensed as Kitiara’s words reverberated in his mind. He knew that Kitiara held the power to end him with a mere gesture, and yet, he couldn’t shake the burning desire for revenge that consumed his every thought.
As he strode out of the arena, he could feel the weight of Kitiara’s gaze boring into his back, her silent warning echoing in his ears. He resisted the urge to lash out, to defy her orders, and continue his relentless pursuit of justice. But he knew that such defiance would only lead to his downfall.
With a heavy heart, he made his way to his bike, the frustration of his failure simmering beneath the surface. He cursed himself for losing control, for allowing his emotions to dictate his actions. Revenge, he reminded himself, was best served with calculation, and he was far too hot-headed to exact it in the heat of the moment.
His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out his phone, the screen illuminating the. With a few swift taps, he dialed Gunnar’s number, lighting a smoke as he waited for his friend to pick up.
It didn’t take long for Gunnar to answer.
“Scor, what’s up?” Gunnar’s words were a lifeline in Phillip’s emotional storm.
“Are you busy?” Desperation seeped through the cracks in his voice.
“Not at the moment. What do you need me to do?” Gunnar’s response was immediate, his unwavering loyalty comforting.
“Get Dennis and meet me at the factory,” he instructed. “And bring beer.”
With a simple affirmation, Gunnar ended the call, leaving Phillip with a fleeting sense of relief.
Mounting his bike, he revved the engine and set off into the night, the roar of the motorcycle drowning out the tumult of his thoughts. He needed clarity, stability, and someone who could temper his rage with reason.
Gunnar, he knew, was the walking personification of composure, and he needed his friend now more than ever.