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“Don’t fucking put it in your pocket.”

“Shit, Khaos.”

“What? You always hold my phone for me.”

“Not like this. What’s the point of staying on the call if she can’t hear or see you?”

I can’t even believe I have to explain. “So I can see her.”

“Dude, you’re gonna be too busy to even—”

“Only for a few minutes.”

“It won’t be just a few minutes.”

“Yeah, it will.” Now that I have an incentive to keep it short.

Grasping my phone around the middle like it’s a goddamn hot dog, he gestures for me to go.

“How was jerking off with a glove, by the way?”

“Tricky.”

“Didn’t hurt?”

I shrug. “I like pain.”

My arms heavy with anticipation, I begin pumping them on the walk down the hall.

Behind me, Dex chuckles. “You’re in the right profession.”

Coming up to the main section of the warehouse, I stop and scan the place. Wall to wall, there’s people everywhere—screaming, drinking, arguing, betting. And in the middle of it all, a cage. Might as well be a fucking zoo.

Sounds like one. Kinda smells like one, too.

I don’t want this to be my profession forever. Only for as long as what’s necessary. That’s it, then I’m done. I have no idea what I do want to do but maybe after everything is settled and I no longer feel that overwhelming need to survive, I can try some different things out. This is the only job I’ve ever had. The only one that’s ever been expected from me.

The dumbass with a mic flashes me an exasperated look I pretend not to notice before he gets on with it, introducing the other fighter first, then me.

“Killa’ K!”

I hate that name. If I could go back and choose one for myself, I would. I was only sixteen when I started out though, so it probably wouldn’t have been much better honestly. Khaos itself is a pretty tough name. I could’ve just gone with that and been good. Unfortunately, I was incredibly reckless back then and almost killed my first opponent. He didn’t die, luckily, but neither did the nickname and now I’m stuck with it.

My opponent and I stand across the cage from each other, sizing each other up while the MC does his thing, hyping the crowd up, giving them lots of time to get their bets in. I’m just chilling, shadowboxing a bit, but the guy I’m supposed to fight, Nasty Nate—I guess there are worse monikers—is a blur of activity.

“Still good?” I ask without taking my eyes off Nate as he shows off his spinning kicks like some kind of fuck-ass ballerina.

When Dex doesn’t answer, I jerk a chin over at him. Since I don’t have a trainer, Dex always stands in my “corner,” acting like he’s mine. His advice isn’t super helpful but I appreciate his support. Since he doesn’t ever bet, I know it’s genuine.

Speaking of genuine, right now he looks genuinely confused.

“Is she good?”

“She?” Understanding finally dawns, and grumbling, he checks my phone. “Out like a light.”

Thankfully, he flashes me the screen, giving me a shot of dopamine straight to the bloodstream. I don’t need drugs when I’ve got Kota Rhodes in my life.

The ref calls both fighters to the middle to touch gloves.