1. Greer #2
The drive into Jersey takes forty minutes of Jake explaining some elaborate betting system I don't follow and Trevor occasionally interjecting with corrections.
They're talking about odds, spreads, something called a parlay.
It washes over me like white noise, familiar in its corporate-strategy cadence but foreign in its application.
I watch streetlights blur past my window and tell myself this is good. This is what normal twenty-nine-year-olds do on Friday nights—they go out with colleagues, they have drinks, they make bad decisions that make good stories later.
They don't sit alone in their too-quiet houses, running fingers over healed scars and wondering why everything feels muted now.
The bar Trevor parks behind is called Lucky's, which should've been my first warning.
Neon sign flickering, paint peeling from the doorframe, the kind of place that serves beer in plastic cups and doesn't ask questions.
Two men smoke near the entrance, their conversation dying as we approach before resuming in lower tones.
"Classy joint," I mutter.
"Just wait." Jake grins, holding the door open. "You'll see."
Inside, Lucky's is exactly what I expected—dim lighting, sticky floors, the smell of stale beer and decades of cigarette smoke soaked into the walls.
A few patrons scattered at the bar, nursing drinks and watching a muted sports game on a TV that's probably older than I am.
The bartender, a woman with gray-streaked hair and tired eyes, barely glances at us.
"This is your big secret?" I keep my voice low as we weave through the sparse crowd. "A dive bar?"
"Have some faith." Trevor leads us past the bar, toward a door marked 'Employees Only' that clearly isn't. He pulls it open without hesitation, revealing stairs descending into darkness. The bass thump of music vibrates up through the concrete.
Now this is interesting.
The stairs are narrow, walls closing in as we descend. Someone painted them black years ago, the paint now chipped and peeling. The sound grows louder with each step—not just music but voices, shouting, the distinct roar of a crowd.
My pulse kicks up. Not from fear. Something else. Something that tastes like copper and adrenaline.
The basement opens into controlled chaos.
The space is massive, clearly multiple basements knocked together, support columns wrapped in protective padding.
Industrial lights hang from exposed ceiling beams, casting harsh shadows across concrete floors that show dark stains no amount of bleach could fully remove.
The air is thick with sweat, beer, cigarette smoke, and something metallic that coats the back of my throat.
Blood. Old and new.
Three rings dominate the space—chain-link cages, each maybe twenty feet across, surrounded by crowds pressed so tight they blur into a single organism.
Money changes hands openly, men and women shouting odds and wagers over the din.
Screens mounted on the walls display betting lines in glowing green numbers that shift constantly.
And in those rings, people are fighting.
Not staged. Not performative. Real violence, the kind that breaks bones and splits skin. A man in the nearest cage takes a knee to the face that sprays blood across the chain-link. The crowd erupts. Someone's collecting on a bet.
My breath catches.
I should be horrified. Should be backing toward those stairs, calling Hayes, getting the fuck out of here.
Instead, I step deeper into the room.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"Right?" Jake claps my shoulder, grinning. "Told you it was incredible."
Trevor is already pushing through the crowd toward a betting booth, pulling cash from his wallet. Jake follows, and I drift after them, unable to look away from the violence unfolding in high definition.
This isn't brutal for brutality's sake. These fighters are skilled—I can see it in their footwork, their guard, the way they read each other's movements. This is chess played with fists and blood. Strategy wrapped in visceral consequence.
The man who took the knee recovers, spits blood, and delivers a combination that sends his opponent stumbling. The crowd's roar physically vibrates through my chest.
Something in me unfolds. Something that's been locked tight since I woke up in Hayes's guest room, since I learned what violence actually looks like when it's not sanitized and distant. Since I understood that the world has teeth and sometimes baring yours back is the only language that matters.
This place is honest. Violently, brutally honest. No pretense, no marketing strategies or quarterly projections or carefully maintained professional distance. Just flesh and will and the raw truth of who breaks first.
I've been walking around for nine months feeling like I'm wrapped in cotton, like there's a pane of glass between me and everything else. Like I'm performing the role of Greer Martin instead of being him.
Here, in this blood-soaked basement with the crowd screaming and money flowing and violence as currency, I can finally breathe.
"Greer!" Trevor shoves through the crowd, beer bottles clutched in both hands. He thrusts one at me, foam sloshing over the rim. "Got your drink."
I take it automatically. The bottle is cold, condensation slick against my palm. "What did you bet on?"
"Match in the west ring." Jake appears at my other side, pointing toward the far cage. "Guy's a monster. Won his last six fights. We're going three hundred on a knockout in the second round."
"Three hundred dollars?"
"Each." Trevor grins. "Come on, let's get closer."
They don't wait for my agreement, already pushing through the press of bodies toward the west ring. I follow because I have no other option, beer clutched tight as we shove through gamblers and spectators and people who look like they could step into those cages and tear someone apart.
Nobody pays me attention. I'm just another face in the crowd, another body drawn to the violence like moths to flame.
We claim a spot maybe ten feet from the cage, close enough that I can hear the fighters breathing between rounds. The man Trevor bet on is exactly what he promised—massive, shoulders like boulders, hands taped and bloodied. His opponent is smaller but faster, dancing out of reach, picking shots.
The bell rings.
They collide in the center of the cage with the crack of bone on bone. The big man throws haymakers that could cave in a skull. The smaller fighter dodges, weaves, waits for openings. Blood flows from both their faces, painting the canvas beneath their feet.
The crowd presses tighter. Someone's elbow digs into my ribs. A woman next to me screams encouragement in Spanish, fist raised. Trevor and Jake are shouting odds, arguing about reach advantage, completely absorbed.
And I?—
I can't look away.
The violence is hypnotic. Every punch carries intent, consequence. There's no walking away from a knockout, no calling your lawyer or hiding behind corporate structure. This is primal. This is what happens when you strip away civilization's veneer and let people be exactly what they are.
The big man catches his opponent with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet. The smaller fighter crumples, unconscious before he hits the ground.
The crowd explodes. Trevor pumps his fist, Jake is screaming about timing, and I just stand there, heart pounding, feeling more present than I have in months.
The referee checks the downed fighter, waves for medical. Two men duck under the cage ropes, lift the unconscious body between them, haul him toward a back area I can't see. The winner raises bloodied fists to the crowd's approval, face split in a grin that shows missing teeth.
This is what Hayes lives in. This raw, unfiltered reality where violence is just another tool, where power means something concrete instead of abstract.
I finally understand why he moves through the world the way he does—because he's seen this truth, lived in it, and everything else is just pretending.
"Let's hit the main ring!" Jake is already moving, pulling Trevor with him. "Championship match is about to start!"
We flow with the crowd toward the center cage, the largest of the three. The space around it is packed three-deep, everyone jockeying for position. Screens overhead show odds shifting rapidly, names I don't recognize, win records scrolling past.
Then I see the name at the top: VIPER - Undefeated, 23-0.
"Who's Viper?" I shout over the noise.
"That's who we came to see." Trevor cranes his neck, trying to see over the crowd. "She's a top fighter. Fucking legend."
"She's fighting?" I ask, catching the pronoun.