We head down the back hall, the hard concrete walls stretching out beneath exposed steel beams. The harsh overhead lights cast a steady glow, catching the contrast between the old bones of the building and the recent upgrades of fresh paint, and reinforced doors.
My office sits at the end of the hall. I push the door open and step inside. The space is simple but sharp. In the center of the room is a heavy desk, its surface polished smooth, everything in its place. A single punching bag hangs in the corner, more habit than decoration, something to bleed frustration into when all else stops working.
I take a seat at the desk, my body humming with tension. The same tension that’s been riding me since I let Katana crack my armor.
The security system isn’t flashy. What happens here isn’t meant to be seen. But safety? That’s non-negotiable. I pull up the footage from a few days ago. One of the alley cameras behind the gym and click play.
The girl on the screen is Alicia. She’s been training here for a few months, long enough to earn bruises and suspicion in equal measure. She fights like she’s already run out of second chances, like every swing is a debt she’s trying to settle.
The footage shows her slipping out the back door after a late session, sweat still clinging to her skin, oblivious to what’s waiting. A man steps out from behind the dumpster moving fast. He twists her arm just enough to drop her, then leans in close. He says something low in her ear. She doesn’t scream or fight,she just freezes. And then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark like he was never there.
This moment right here is why Amber ended up in my ring instead of Alicia, bringing the Royal Harlots to my front door.
I freeze the frame zooming in on the red-eyed snake tattoo on his neck.
Brick whistles low. “That’s Serrano’s crew.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “They’re not being subtle anymore.”
Brick folds his arms. “You gonna do something about it?”
I don’t answer right away. I close the file, crack my neck, and move like the tension in my spine’s got nowhere else to go.
“Working on it.”
That’s all I can say, because the truth is I’m losing my grip, one fighter at a time. Every part of me is screaming. I’m two steps from punching holes in the drywall. Three from dragging that snake-marked bastard into the street and showing people what happens when they fuck with my fighters.
After Brick leaves, I make a call I shouldn’t. The phone rings five times.
“You’re not supposed to be calling me.”
“I don’t give a shit. Victor Serrano. What’s he building?”
There’s a long pause, a heavy breath and then, “He’s building a funnel. Fighters go in. Soldiers come out. Anyone who resists disappears.”
“Where’s his base?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious. Shell fronts, fake addresses, abandoned buildings. Every time we get close, he’s gone. He’s using girls to run recon. Sometimes worse.”
My jaw tightens. “Worse?”
“You ever wonder where the girls Voss didn’t use ended up?”
I don’t answer. My throat’s too dry to speak. I hang up without another word.
And to think Katana and the Royal Harlots think I’m the poison in this city.
She doesn’t know what I’m trying to stop here. Victor Serrano isn’t just poaching. He’s constructing a damn pipeline underneath us. And if I don’t keep my grip tight on this ring, he’s going to swallow it whole along with every desperate fighter who walks through my doors.
I walk back out to the floor and step into the ring. My boots drag over canvas scuffed by every fighter that’s come through desperate to prove something.
Some people think fight rings are chaos. They’re not. They’re controlled storms. Precision rage. Rituals written in spit, sweat, and broken bones. Every echo, every heartbeat, every scream, it’s predictable once you’ve lived inside it long enough. You learn to hear the rhythm. Feel it under your feet like a second pulse.
But tonight? The rhythm’s off.
