Page 34 of Celestial Combat

So I let myself do something normal for the first time in weeks. I got my hair done – a Colombian Blowout to smooth every inch of my curls into sleek perfection. I sat in the salon chair for two hours while they washed, treated, and straightened my hair, letting the hum of dryers drown out the noise in my head.

Then my nails – Y2K long acrylics, baby pink with rhinestone butterflies. The kind of nails that made me feel untouchable.

By late afternoon, I had gone shopping, walked through the city. I felt better. Not fixed, not whole, but better.

Then came the final step.

Trevor had recommended a gym in Midtown calledPython. He trusted the people there, and had told me to ask for someone namedZane.

But when I walked into the dimly lit combat gym – past the front doors and the strong scent of sweat, metal, and disinfectant – I didn’t ask for him. It felt too pathetic.

The receptionist glanced up from her laptop. “Can I help you?”

I adjusted my oversized sunglasses, the thick black frames covering half my face. Underneath them, my healing bruises sat like shadows under my skin. “Yeah. I’m interested in fighting lessons.”

Her eyes flicked over me, lingering on the faint bruises peeking through the makeup on my neck, the barely-healed cut on my lip. I saw the moment realization clicked for her. Her voice softened. “Do you need any other help, sweetie?”

My stomach twisted.

I could have told the truth. I could have let my voice crack, let my hands shake, let someone else carry the weight for just a second.

Instead, I gave her the same easy lie I had been feeding everyone.

“Nah, just got into a catfight with some girls.” The words left my mouth quickly.

Before she could respond, a deep voice cut in from behind me.

“We don’t train bullies.”

I turned, my heart stuttering.

The man standing there washuge. Tall –at least6 foot four. Broad shoulders – built like someone who lived in a gym. Dressed in all black – compression shirt stretched over his muscular chest and arms, and low hanging sweatpants. Tattoos – all black too, crawling from his knuckles, disappearing under his sleeves and reappearing all the way to his jawline.

His face.

Sharp cheekbones. Piercings – one silver stud in his nose, two in his brow. Black hair – controlled, with strands falling slightly over his forehead.

Black eyes that never even flicked over me once before dismissing me completely.

Heat prickled up my spine.

He reached to pick up a stack of papers from the reception desk, barely looking at me.

“This is a combat gym,” I said, forcing a small, teasing smirk onto my lips. “You saying you don’t teach people how to fight?”

“We teach self-defense.” His voice was low, edged with something unreadable. He finished gathering the papers, still not sparing me another glance.

“That’s what I said.”

“Not the same thing.”

I inhaled sharply, feeling irritation crawl up my skin.

He hadn’t even looked at me properly. Just wrote me off.

He turned to leave, rolling his shoulders as if this entire conversation was a waste of his time.

“Find another gym.”