We had been kidnapped, and every instinct for survival turned against me.
I remembered the orders—given by our captor himself—and how they forced me to do the unthinkable.
I was the one who delivered the punches.
One hundred and fifteen precise, uncontrollable strikes landed on my best friend, Amy’s face, each one destroying what I loved most about her until she was unrecognizable, until life slipped from her eyes.
Every blow, every sickening thud, is still etched into my mind, a permanent scar on my soul, a reminder that I had become the instrument of horror.
I had been forced to kill my bestfriend, yet nothing in me felt like the same person afterward.
My mind had splintered, leaving me hyper-alert, restless, and prone to spirals of anger I could not always contain.
Every punch I threw, every move I made, carried the memory of that night.
It whispered through my veins, tightening my chest, clawing at my nerves.
The fear, the rage, the cold, mechanical precision—it was all still there, simmering beneath the surface, ready to ignite if provoked.
And now, here in this gilded dressing room, facing this short, furious man, I felt it.
The same old fire.
The same lethal instinct.
I could end him if I wanted.
I knew that.
But control... control was everything.
Losing it could destroy more than just him.
It could destroy me.
Yet my body was ready.
My mind was ready. And if he came at me... I would fight.
I tried to warn him not to make a move—to make him understand that I was far more dangerous than he thought—but before I could get a single word out, he moved.
Fast. Precise.
His hand slipped into the hidden sheath in his boot, and in one swift motion, he drew a dagger and hurled it straight at me.
I barely reacted in time, guiding the blade with the flat of my hand, letting it glance past me.
It missed—but only just. Close enough that if I’d been a fraction slower, it could have found my forehead.
“Please... don’t make me do this,” I said, my voice low as I steadied myself, lowering into a guarded stance as every muscle coiled, ready to defend. “I won’t be able to stop.”
He ignored my warnings and came at me again—no hesitation this time.
Just raw intent.
His fist cut through the air, fast and reckless.
I caught his wrist, twisted, redirected—but he followed through with a knee aimed for my ribs.
