When did she arrive or had she been there all the time?
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she scolded, her tone laced with familiarity born only from someone who knew you well. She was young, barely past womanhood but there was an invisible awareness to her stance, something I conformed to.
“And you should be training,” he scoffed.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s all I ever do.” She stepped forward, grabbing his arm.
There was something about the way she moved that irritated me instantly, a quiet confidence, like she belonged there, like she had already carved out a space beside him and decided no one could take it away.
“We’ll see about that,” I muttered, scanning the side of the building. Four seconds later, I slipped through a hole in the roof, climbing the interior skeleton until I found my perch above what looked like a training floor. All around me, the air carried undisguised dampness dwarfed by the faint smell of dust.
“When are you going to let me into a real ring,” she huffed. “I’ve been locked up for ages.”
“When you’re ready,” he retorted. “It’s for your own good.”
“Blah fucking blah,” she grunted matching his indifference.
Who was this girl?
All sharp angles and quick reflexes, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her shoulders gleaming with sweat, she worked a heavy punching bag with a dogged rhythm. Remo stepped close, not crowding her, just enough to correct her stance, and when his hand settled at her shoulder, gentle and precise, my breath stalled in my throat. It was such an ordinary touch, almost nothing, but it carried the intimacy of habit. He adjusted her wrist with his palm, guided her punch, and murmured something low that made her straighten with pride.
The sight slid under my ribs and twisted, slow and wary, until it hurt to breathe. Jealousy was too small a word for that feeling. It was older, somewhat feral and territorial that lived in me sincethe first time Remo looked at me like I mattered. Still, I stayed where I was and watched them, counting the seconds as if each one were a bead on a rosary I couldn’t stop fingering, waiting for the moment she’d tire and demand rest.
Only, it was Remo who gave me a reprieve. “I’m going out for a few.”
“Where?” she snapped, breathing hard, her face flushed with sweat. “You’re not supposed–”
His brow shot up, cutting her off. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” At her hurt look, he sighed. “Fifteen minutes max, Alessia. I need cigarettes and you need a bath. You stink,” he teased.
“And you’re an ass.” She threw the towel at him, and he avoided it with a laugh.
Clearly, they had history. Question was, who were they hiding her from?
When the echo of his footsteps dissolved and the engine of his car dwindled into the night, the quiet that followed felt forebodingly heavy. Alessia wiped her brow with the hem of her shirt and rolled her neck, stretching out the tension, unaware that she was about to encounter something that would hit back.
I moved slowly, my shoes finding the beams with practiced precision, letting my body descend with the ease of a viper, and dropped to the floor soundlessly. Alessia froze almost immediately, her posture tightening before her eyes found me, and I felt a flicker of reluctant respect. Instincts like that couldn’t be taught, they were born from surviving.
“Who’s there?” She spun around, voice sharp, fists already lifting, ready to strike.
Moonlight slid through a broken window and caught the white of my ying-yang mask, the surface dull and bone-like, the hood of my one-piece obscuring everything else. I stepped out of the shadows enough to let her see me, to let her understand thatthis wasn’t some stray or trespasser but someone with intention. Her head snapped up, eyes widening when she saw the mask, my red contacts probably giving her pause.
“That’s the wrong question.” I kept my voice even, letting it blur slightly. Having practiced it for years, it sounded natural. “You should be asking why he left you alone.”
Her breath hitched, a small betrayal of fear, and I knew Remo hadn’t mentioned me. Hadn’t prepared her for the possibility of something circling him in the dark. A stalker, a killer. The knowledge should’ve pleased me more than it did.
“You’ve been watching us,” she said, accusation threading through the words.
“I watch him,” I corrected, eyes on her feet. “Don’t move.” I wanted to play with her a little before I fed the ache in my chest. “Or you’ll bleed.”
Stubborn, she came at me. Fast. A right hook thrown with the confidence of someone who’d practiced it a thousand times. I sidestepped and caught her wrist, felt the thin bones shift under my grip, twisted just enough to redirect the force, but she rolled with it, dropping low to sweep my legs. I jumped back, shoes scraping across the floor, and for a heartbeat we circled each other like animals testing the limits of the other. There was no hesitation in her, only determination, and that tenacity chafed something raw inside me.
She lunged again, and this time I intercepted her forearm, using her own momentum to drive her into a stack of old crates. The wood shuddered, dust lifting into the air in lazy spirals. Righting herself, she snarled trying to elbow my ribs. I blocked, driving my fist into her stomach with more force than I meant to use. The impact stole the air from her lungs. She folded over, coughing, pain etching lines into her face.
“You don’t know him,” she forced out between breaths, still glaring at me like I was the villain in her story.
I tilted my head, studying her. “And you think you do?”
“I don’t need to know him,” she shot back. “I just need to stop you.”
