He hesitates a beat longer.
“Dammit Brick. Spit it out.”
“Briggs is gone too.” He finally says, “Didn’t show up for his match. Phone’s off. No sign of him anywhere.”
Briggs isn’t the type to run. He’s ex-military, honor’s in his blood. Fights for a paycheck, sure, but he has a code. Itrained him myself. He bled for this ring. For me. If he’s gone, something’s fucking wrong.
My mind flashes to the security feed of Alicia being grabbed by the dumpster. The red-eyed snake on that bastard’s neck. Serrano’s crew isn’t just watching us. They’re thinning us out. One by one.
“Run every camera around his place. I want his last twenty-four hours. I want names. Plates. Patterns.” Brick nods. “And Brick?”
He meets my eyes. “No more runners. Not for now. You or me. That’s it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just turns and disappears back into the fog like a ghost.
I wait until his footsteps fade, till the air stills again. Eyes are everywhere lately. Serrano’s… the Royal Harlots.
The pier groans underfoot as I cross the boards. Mist clings to my jacket like cold fingers creeping down my spine. I stay off the main path, cutting through an alley that stinks of fish guts, past old storage sheds tagged up with gang signs and warnings. A shape flickers at the fringe of a streetlamp but it’s gone in a blink of the eye. It’s hard to tell what’s real when the dark breathes down my neck and every creak sounds like boots behind me. My hand drifts to the knife in my belt, my thumb brushing the handle. Paranoia’s a predator and tonight it’s gnawing straight through my bones.
By the time the lot three blocks down comes into view, my heart is hammering like I just went ten rounds. I circle my Charger once, hand on steel, scanning for wires, trackers, anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
I slide into the driver’s seat, holding my breath as I turn the key. I let it out to the sound of the engine rumbling to life. Old habits die hard, especially when the past is this close.
The steering wheel’s cold beneath my palm, I grip it tight anyway and drive back toward the city, toward the apartment I haven’t slept at in months.
Glass towers rise before me, polished and glowing, too clean to be touched by the filth crawling through the alleys downtown. My tires hum as I turn into the underground garage. Here, everything smells like fresh paint, new rubber, and money. Not blood, not sweat. I don’t belong here. That’s why I like it.
I kill the engine, step out, and shut the door with a satisfying thud. My boots echo across the smooth epoxy floor, too dirty for a place this sterile. My fingers twitch as I press the key fob, hear the soft beep of the lock, and pocket it.
The elevator’s fast, and silent, the kind that doesn’t creak or groan. I lean against the wall, my head tilted back, and watch my own reflection in the brushed metal. I look like hell. My jaw’s clenched tight, stubble creeping over my chin. The look of a man unraveling slowly. I drag a hand down my face, try to scrub off the weight clinging to my skin but it doesn’t budge.
The door opens with a whisper on the tenth floor. I step out into the sleek hallway of dark wood floors, soft lighting and minimalist art that costs more than most people make in a month. I walk like I’ve got a purpose, even though the only thing waiting behind that door is silence.
I reach my unit at the end of the hall, punch in the code and step inside locking the door behind me. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around one side of the apartment showing off a skyline of glass and steel lit up like a damn stage. Inside, it’s all exposed brick and matte black fixtures. Modern. Masculine. Designed to look lived-in without actually being lived in. There’s a leather couch I’ve barely sat on, a kitchen I don’t cook in, a bed I never sleep in. This place is a vault for the part of me I never let anyone see. The one still playing the game.
I pour myself a bourbon, neat. Let it burn a little on the way down. Then I peel off my jacket, drop it on a chair, and sink into the silence.
The city looks beautiful from up here. Clean. Untouchable. But I know better. Down there, Serrano’s building an empire. Turning good fighters into addicts and weapons, girls into bait.
I turn away from the view and sink into the plush leather sofa. My body aches. Not from fighting but from the mental weight of this war I’m trying to fight with two fists and a sense of honor no one fucking believes in.
Katana’s face flashes in my mind. The storm in her eyes when she accused me of poaching her fighters. The disgust when she said I was luring her girls into danger. I wanted to scream at her. Grab her shoulders and make her see. I’m not the villain here. I’m not the threat. But fuck. How do you defend yourself to someone who’s already written your epitaph?
Truth is, a part of me liked that she was thinking about me at all. I drag a hand down my face and lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. I stare at the floor like it might offer answers.
What the fuck am I doing?
When I started this ring, it was about control. About building something Marc would’ve been proud of. He died trying to escape the filth. I wanted to make a place where fighters didn’t have to crawl through it. A place where desperation wasn’t a death sentence. But it’s slipping away. Fighters are disappearing. Girls are getting grabbed. Runners turning traitor.
I used to be good at the game. Now the board’s shifting, the pieces are being taken off one by one, and I’m playing against someone who doesn’t play by the rules.
The phone in my pocket vibrates once. I pull it out and answer sharply. “Yeah.”
Brick's voice is tight and panicked. “Briggs didn’t run. Someone took him.”
I sit up straight.
