My breathing turns ragged. The room feels smaller like the walls are closing in. Every strike shakes through my bones until I can’t tell where the bag ends and I start.
Then I miss. My fist sails past the canvas, momentum throwing me off balance. My shoulder clips the bag, and I hit the floor hard enough to rattle the rafters. For a second I just lie there, staring up at the exposed pipes, my chest heaving.
The sound of footsteps pulls me back. Briggs stops at the edge of the mat, a towel slung over his shoulder, brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out if I’m still breathing. “You planning to kill that thing, or just yourself?”
I sit up, wipe the sweat from my face, and let out something between a laugh and a growl. “Working on both.”
Briggs shakes his head, steps closer, and holds out a towel. “You look like shit.”
“Sounds about right.” I move to my feet and swing wildly at my target.
The bag jolts under my fist, the chain above squealing in protest. My breath comes rough, my chest burning, arms trembling from too many rounds.
Briggs edges closer and squints, “Something happen?”
He waits, patient but wary, like he knows better than to push too hard. I don't answer right away. I rip off a glove, flex my hand, and watch the blood bead across split knuckles. “Yeah. She told me to get out.”
“Damn.” Briggs whistles under his breath.
“She didn’t want to hear the truth.” I mutter.
He tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his stare. I grab the towel he offers, press it to my hands. “Riot wasn’t who she thought she was.”
That gets his attention. “The one from her club?”
“Yeah. She was feeding Serrano’s crew information. Katana didn’t know. None of them did. I couldn’t keep that to myself.”
Briggs lets out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t blame her. Riot was her family.”
“I thought she’d listen,” I drag the towel across my neck, staring at the floor. “Thought she’d see I was trying to protect her. But the second I said it, it was over. The way she looked at me…” I trail off, my jaw locked tight. “Like I was the one betraying her.”
Briggs shifts his weight to lean against the wall. He shakes his head slowly. “You? The guy who goes twelve rounds with anyone who looks at him wrong? You just left?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “Because this wasn’t a fight I could win.”
He grins just a little, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You need ice or whiskey?”
I hold my hands up, red and raw. “Both.”
“That tracks.” Briggs pushes off the wall and heads toward the office fridge. “You know, man, you can’t fix everything.”
I half-laugh, half-snarl. “Can’t seem to fix anything.”
He tosses me a bottle of water instead of whiskey. “Drink that instead.”
I catch it, twist the cap, and down half of it before wiping my mouth. For a minute we sit in silence, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft sway of the bag. My pulse starts to even out, but the ache in my chest doesn’t.
“Look,” Briggs says finally, “you did what you thought was right. Maybe she’ll see that when the dust settles.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I don’t believe it. “Or maybe I just broke the one thing that matters.”
Briggs picks up one of the gloves off the floor, turns it over in his hands. “Then fix it. You’re good at rebuilding broken shit.”
“Not this time.”
“That sucks, man.” Briggs studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “At least with Serrano’s gone, you can breathe easier now.”
“Yeah, I should be.” I toss the water bottle into the trash can, my muscles screaming from the movement. “But Serrano wasn’t working alone.
