Page 12 of Celestial Combat

As she walked toward the elevator at the end of the hallway, I veered to the side, balling my fist and rapping it hard against another door near the exit. By the time I reached the elevator too, the door behind me was opening, and my soldiers were stepping back out into the alley.

I pressed the button for minus five.

The ride down was tense. Silent. The dim elevator light cast long shadows over Meisa’s face, making the bruises stand out sharper against her brown skin. I could feel the weight of her presence beside me, like an unspoken challenge. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift. Just stood still, steady, controlled.

The doors slid open to the underground warehouse – empty at this hour.

We stepped out, the vast space stretching before us.

Meisa walked behind me as I led the way past the cage toward the staircase on the other side of the warehouse.

We climbed in silence, passing the VIP section – a sleek, glass-walled overlook where high-rollers would sit, watching the fights from above.

At the top, we reached my office.

Dark brown wood, polished and rich. Black leather chairs, a sleek desk, and an entire wall lined with katanas displayed in glass cases. The lighting was low, creating deep contrasts and shadows.

Meisa stopped in the middle of the room, arms loose at her sides, gaze unreadable.

I shut the door behind us, blocking out the rest of the world.

I moved to the Japanese-style cabinet in the corner and slid the panel open. Inside, neatly folded stacks of clothing rested alongside precisely arranged weapons – necessity and violence. I reached in, pulling out a pair of black sweats and a fresh towel. Without looking at her, I extended them in her direction.

A moment passed before she took them, the fabric brushing against my fingers before her warmth disappeared entirely.

I pulled open a shallower drawer, retrieving a small collection of first aid supplies – antiseptic wipes, bandages, medical tape – and setting them on my desk.

I could feel her eyes on me, lingering like a presence I couldn’t shake.

Still, I didn’t turn around, not wanting to see the blood on lip and temple anymore. “Shower’s through there.” I nodded towards the ensuite bathroom without glancing up, already occupied with unsealing a pack of gauze.

“I can use the one in the changing rooms.”

“You’ll use this one.”

My tone left no room for argument, final and absolute, spoken like someone used to having his orders followed.

A pause. Then the smallest shift in the air. I could tell she wanted to say something – fight me on it, challenge me – but she didn’t. And I hated admitting that it got to me, not knowingwhy.

I could guess why. She wanted in. Into Fight Club.

Instead, I heard the soft brush of retreating footsteps across the hardwood floor. The subtle weight of her presence moved past me, her energy lingering even as she disappeared from my line of sight. A second later, the muted click of the bathroom door shutting echoed in the stillness, followed shortly by the distant rush of water.

I finally looked up, staring at the closed door, my hands resting on the desk. The space felt different without her in it. My jaw clenched slightly, fingers flexing against the cool surface of the wood before I forced my focus back to the task at hand.

But even as I reached for the antiseptic wipes, I could still hear the water running, still feel the remnants of her presence thick in the room.

And my blood ran hotter.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking slightly as I scrolled through the last of the financial reports on my screen. The numbers blurred together. My mind wasn’t there, not really. Not when I knew she was still in my shower, naked, steam curling under the frame of the closed door.

The door clicked open.

I didn’t look right away, but I felt it. The shift in the air, the pull.

When I finally lifted my gaze, Meisa was standing there.

The towel held tightly against her chest.