He was good.
I pushed off the wall and drove forward with a double leg takedown that caught him off guard, my shoulder driving into his hips. We hit the pavement hard, the impact jarring through my already damaged body. I landed on top, tried to establish position and control.
He bucked his hips with practiced precision, reversed me with a technical bridge, and suddenly I was on my back with his fist coming down toward my face in a hammerfist that would have broken my nose if it connected.
I turned my head at the last second. His knuckles scraped concrete instead, the sound of it sharp and brutal. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, pulled him down closer, and drove my forehead into his face with everything I had.
His nose crunched. Blood sprayed hot across my face, metallic and immediate.
We scrambled apart, both breathing hard now. Both got to our feet. Both bleeding and hurting but still functional.
My ribs were screaming. The cut above my eye had reopened from the headbutt, blood dripping into my vision. My hands ached from two fights already tonight, knuckles swollen and throbbing.
But I'd been fighting my whole life. Pain was just information, data to catalog and work through.
He came at me low, changing levels fast. Drove his shoulder into my midsection and slammed me back against the dumpster.The metal rang like a bell, the sound echoing through the alley. My spine lit up with agony, nerves firing in protest.
I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck. Once. Twice. Felt him grunt with each impact, his grip loosening slightly.
He drove a fist into my kidney in retaliation. The pain was immediate and total, radiating through my entire side in waves that made my legs weak.
I kneed him in the face, driving my knee up as hard as I could. He released me and staggered back, blood now pouring from his nose and mouth.
We were both hurt now. Both moving slower. The alley felt smaller, the walls closing in, the space shrinking to just the two of us and the violence between us.
He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine. Cold calculation behind the pain, assessing damage and options.
I caught his next punch with my left hand, twisted his wrist with both hands using leverage instead of strength, used his momentum to slam him against the brick wall. Drove my elbow into his face once, the point of it connecting with his cheekbone. Twice, feeling cartilage give way under the impact.
He headbutted me in response. My vision went white, the world disappearing in a flash of pain. Blood poured from my nose, hot and metallic, running down into my mouth.
We broke apart. Both bleeding now from multiple points. Both breathing hard, sucking in air through damaged faces, our breath hanging in clouds between us.
My legs were shaking. The adrenaline from the earlier fights was wearing off, leaving nothing but exhaustion and accumulated damage. Every breath hurt. Every movement sent pain shooting through my ribs in sharp bursts.
He could see it. Saw me favoring my left side. Saw the blood in my eyes. Saw the way I was struggling to stay upright, weight shifting to compensate for injuries.
He moved like he was going to come at me again, muscles tensing for another attack, then stopped. Looked at me with cold calculation that said he'd gotten what he came for.
“Message from a friend,” he said. Voice flat and professional, no emotion in it. “Back off or next time it's not a warning.”
Then he ran.
I started after him but my ribs screamed in protest and my vision swam and by the time I could move properly he was gone. Disappeared into the maze of alleys and side streets like he'd never been there at all.
I stood there gasping, bleeding, trying to process what the fuck had just happened.
A message and a warning. Someone wanted me to know they could reach me. Could hurt me. Could end this whenever they wanted.
I wiped blood from my face with my sleeve. Started walking home faster than before, checking over my shoulder every few steps, eyes scanning the shadows for movement. My boots crunched through frozen puddles, ice cracking under my weight, the sound too loud in the quiet streets.
The house was dark when I got there except for the flickering light of the TV through the living room window. Troy's bike was in the garage, chrome catching the overhead light.
He was home.
I let myself in quietly. Locked the door behind me. Set the security system with hands that were starting to shake now that the adrenaline was fully wearing off.
The living room was exactly what I'd expected. Troy sprawled on the couch, TV playing some late-night show he wasn't watching, beer bottle still in his hand but mostly empty.
