I stumbled back to my corner, blood dripping from my chin, one eye already swelling shut. I spat red into the corner and didn’t look at Bruno.
He stood across the cage, still breathing steady, arms loose at his sides.
Still not bleeding.
Round four.
He came in as if the previous round had done nothing to him—but I saw it. The tell. A faint hesitation when he pivoted, the stiffness in his left side. That was where I’d hit him. The ribs.
I went for it.
A sharp right feint, then a left hook to the same spot—and I felt it. The way he hunched, instinctive and tight, just for a breath. He recovered fast, but it was there.
I pressed in. Fast hands. Clean strikes. I hit him again, and this time, the grunt was real.
Blood.
It burst from his nose, fast and bright. The crowd reacted instantly—half wild with approval, half stunned it had taken this long. Bruno wiped it away with the back of his glove, but I saw it in his eyes. That flicker.
He was bleeding. And now he knew I’d seen it.
He got erratic after that. Still dangerous, but the precision was gone. He swung wider, missed more. Started chasing me instead of controlling the fight. I moved, ducked, and clipped his thigh again. The edge was mine now.
I circled him, heart pounding, lungs seizing—but I could see the win.
I could fucking see it.
So I went in hard.
I didn’t give him time to recover, didn’t give him room to reset. I stayed on him, pushed him back with every strike. My fists found flesh—his ribs, his jaw, the side of his head. His balance faltered, and I felt the shift again. The fight was mine. My blood was already spent; I had nothing left to hold back.
Bruno tried to respond, but it was sloppy now—his arms slower, feet dragging. I landed a right hook that spun him. Another to the gut. I could hear the crowd losing it, roaring, but all I saw was him. Breaking. Cracking open under pressure.
One more shot—an uppercut that came from somewhere deep inside me—and he crumpled.
He hit the mat hard, eyes shut, bloodied and beaten, and finally, finally still at my feet.
I stood over him, chest heaving, blood pounding in my ears, my fists still raised as if they didn’t know it was over.
The crowd was roaring, a wall of noise that should’ve made my blood rush with pride, with adrenaline—but I felt nothing but peace in my head.
No glory. No satisfaction. My prize would go to Danny’s sister for the kid.
I kept staring at him, waiting for him to move. Forthe twitch of a shoulder, the groan of someone waking up from a hard fall. But Bruno wasn’t getting up.
I scanned the edge of the cage, searching for his handler. The man was already retreating, head down, sliding into the shadows like a roach under a light. Probably made bets he couldn’t cash.
Where the fuck was Lianne?
I nudged Bruno’s side with my toe—light, cautious. The ghost of Danny Carbone slammed to the front of my mind. The look in his eyes before he dropped. The way no one moved fast enough to stop it.
And then, somehow, Danny became Lyric.
It was Lyric crumpling at my feet, not Bruno. And that was a panic I’d never felt before.
My vision tunneled. I couldn’t breathe right. Every part of my body said move—do something—but my muscles locked. My heart slammed against my ribs as if it was trying to break free. I’d hurt people before, I’d knocked them cold, but this—this felt different.
This felt as if I’d lost something I wasn’t supposed to touch in the first place.
