"Another question?"
"Yes."
"Go ahead."
"Your pit name. Rampage, right? Who gave it to you?"
"The crowd," he says finally. "First fight I had down there. Guy was talking shit, getting in my face. Thought he was tough." He pauses. "I put him in the hospital."
"Jesus."
"Broke his jaw in three places. Fractured two ribs. Gave him a concussion that kept him there for five days." His voice is completely flat, emotionless. "Someone in the crowd said I went on a rampage. The name stuck."
"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Hurting him that badly?"
"No."
The answer is immediate, certain, and I should probably be scared by that. By the fact that he has no remorse for sending someone to the hospital. But I'm not scared. I'm something else entirely.
"He was asking for it," Cole continues. "And everyone else down there needed to understand what happens when you step in that ring with me. I don't pull punches. I don't show mercy. You come at me, you better be prepared for what comes back."
"And they keep coming anyway."
"Money's good if you win. And everyone thinks they're going to be the one to finally take me down." That almost-smirk touches his mouth again. "They're wrong."
"What if someone does?" I ask. "Eventually. What if someone finally beats you?"
"Then they beat me," he says simply. "And I get back up and do it again."
"You'd keep fighting? Even after losing?"
"What else would I do?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I realize it's not rhetorical. He's genuinely asking. What else would he do without the fights? Without that outlet for whatever darkness lives inside him?
"You could do this," I say, gesturing to the gym around us. "Just this. Teaching people. Running the gym. You don't need the underground fights."
"Yes," he says. "I do."
And the way he says it… The certainty, the finality, tells me everything I need to know about how deep whatever he's dealing with actually goes. The fights aren't optional for him. They're necessary. They're survival.
"Okay," I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I wonder what he sees. If he sees someone who understands, or someone who's just naive enough to think she does. If he sees someone worth protecting, or just another student passing through.
"We should finish the lesson," he says finally, standing up.
I take the hand he offers and let him pull me to my feet. His palm is rough, scarred, and when I'm standing, he doesn't immediately let go.
"Friday," he says. "Ten-thirty. Back entrance."
"I'll be there," I promise.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles once before he releases my hand. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm in serious trouble.
Chapter 7 - Rampage
I'm in serious trouble.
