I slide the phone face-down onto the table, turn back to the window, and stay there watching shadows crawl across asphalt, waiting for dawn to break.
6
DANTE
The city’s still half-asleep when I pull up to Steel Roses Gym just before dawn. A pale orange light smears over the rooftops, breaking through the haze, and the air’s got that early-morning bite. I kill the engine and sit for a moment, watching my breath cloud the windshield.
I’d half expected her to ignore my text. Part of me wanted her to.
This is still a bad idea. I don’t ask for help. Not from cops, not from friends, and sure as hell not from women who could gut me without breaking stride. But I’m here anyway.
The gym sits at the dead end of a narrow street, brick walls pressed tight against the hulking side of the old brewery the Harlots turned into their clubhouse. The trace tang of malt still hangs in the air. A steel door bears the gym’s name in bold red script, flanked by two chrome-blade roses that glint even in the weak dawn light.
I climb out, boots hitting wet pavement, the smell of last night’s rain still clinging to the air. Above the corner, a security camera tilts down, its dark glass eye tracking my every move.
I pause just long enough to feel the weight of what I’m about to do. Once I walk through that door, I’ll be in her world, under her rules, and every damn move I make is going to be under a microscope. There’s no taking it back, no pretending this is just a conversation. I’m opening a door I can’t close again, and I’m not sure if I’m here because I need her help… or because I need her. My pulse hammers, not from fear exactly, but from the sharp edge of knowing I’m about to break my own rules.
I step toward the door, raising my fist before I change my mind. The steel is cold under my knuckles as I knock once, twice. The sound echoes down the empty street, a hollow reminder that it’s too damn early for anyone sane to be up.
A beat passes, long enough for the chill to settle on the back of my neck. Then the lock clicks, and the door swings open to Katana standing there with her hair damp and pulled up, exposing the soft skin at her neck. I swallow hard, and tell myself I’m here for a reason. That I’m only noticing how the morning light sharpens the line of her jaw because it’s there, not because I can’t stop looking. That I’m not watching the way her tank top slips off one shoulder, not tracking the way she moves. I tell myself a lot of things at the moment. Most of them are lies.
She studies me in silence, slow and deliberate, like weighing whether to let me in or slam the door in my face.
“You’re on time,” she says, like that’s a surprise.
“Didn’t want to give you a reason to change your mind.”
Her mouth twitches caught somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. She holds the door just far enough for me to pass but doesn’t step back.
I nod toward the open space. “You gonna let me in?”
She steps aside without answering. I cross the threshold, and the air changes like it’s charged with the heated tension between us that neither of us wants to acknowledge.
The door shuts behind me with a metallic click that echoes too loud. Inside it smells like leather and chalk, cut by the sharp bite of disinfectant. Overhead lights blaze across the mats, leaving nowhere to hide. Rows of heavy bags hang motionless, chains glinting under the glare, and the weight racks line the far wall. This is Katana’s territory, and I feel it in every step she takes.
She walks ahead without looking back, tying her hair tighter like she’s already preparing for a fight. She steps up into the ring and turns, tilting her head just enough to make it a challenge.
“This isn’t a coffee date,” Katana says, her voice steady but her eyes sharp. “You want to talk, you’re going to have to earn it. Then I’ll decide if I’m willing to listen.”
She says it like it’s not up for debate. Like whatever’s about to happen in this ring will tell her more than my words ever could. That’s what I’m afraid of.
One corner of my mouth lifts. “Earn it?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know how this works.” She tilts her head measuring me. “We spar. You win, maybe I listen a little longer. You lose…” Her eyes flash. “Well, you’ll still be breathing. Probably.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, rolling my shoulders.
“Absolutely,” she says, “Don’t hold back, because I won’t.”
I’m not here for games, but my pulse says otherwise. I toe off my boots, and drop my jacket on the bench. The floor is firm under my bare feet, the kind that makes every slip a mistake you’ll feel for days.
Katana’s already side-stepping at the center of the ring when I climb in. She’s barefoot, tank top clinging to her skin, black shorts riding high on her hips. There’s a loose, coiled energy about her like she’s waiting for me to make the first move.
“You want gloves?” I ask.
Her grin is sharp. “No. Are you planning to hit me?”
“Only if you hit me first.”
