Page 11

C hapter 11

Grey

The whistling wind outside the window, the branches knocking against the panes, and the pattering rain were the only sounds during that first night. Nothing else happened; no one broke into the tattered room that used to be my brother’s, and no one so much as entered the yard outside the manor.

We were safe, as safe as we could be.

Days passed—almost two weeks—and I began to believe the note we saw was just a figment of our imaginations—exhausted brains conjuring something from nothing. Oddly, it’s been easier sleeping in this broken bed with only each other for warmth than it ever was in the motel. Perhaps because of the looming threat of civilization.

We found solace here, but all good things must come to an end.

I sit in bed, my back aching from the uncomfortable position I’ve held while staring out the window and into the woods beyond. Naya fell asleep a while ago, her body curled up into a ball behind me. She’s snoring lightly, with chestnut brown hair falling over her face, the blue ends worn out. I brush it behind her ear. She looks so peaceful—far from the broken expression she wears when she’s awake.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling heavily.

Our money is running out, and our food is scarce. We haven’t yet been willing to leave the bubble of safety we’ve created here in each other’s embraces.

But I know it’s time. We will never survive if we continue like this.

There is only one thing we can do. That I can do if I want to give Naya a shot at survival.

Quietly, I stand from the bed, making sure to avoid the creaking floor planks. I cannot risk waking her up, or she will never let me go.

Tip-toeing over to the door, I remove the broken chair leg and carefully place it on the dusty ground. Before exiting the room, I grab my jacket and close the door behind me. I hate leaving her alone, not being able to lock the door to protect her.

As soon as I step into the hallway behind, a cold wind brushes over my entire frame. The dead of the night creates small puffs of smoke as I breathe in, then out, making the chill even more evident. I attempt not to let my teeth clatter as I get out of the house without making another sound, not wanting to alert her.

It’s time to meet my past.

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THE STREETS ARE EMPTY, graffiti splashed across the rundown walls of buildings that have stood here for years. Garbage litters the ground, a testament to the decay of this part of town, where junkies and those living on the edge of legality reside. This is a place where the wicked and law-breakers rule—even the police know not to disturb.

I head past the old grocery store, its door adorned with a permanent “Closed” sign hanging behind shattered glass. The windows have been broken in, glass staining the floor, and the shelves are empty, long since stripped of any groceries.

The desolation is palpable as I continue down the street, a distant wailing of a siren far away, but they won’t approach this part. I pull my jacket tighter, trying to ward off the bite of coldness seeping through my bones. Turning left when I spot the alleyway leading down to the warehouse, a mixed sense of nervosity and adrenaline washes over me.

I once vowed never to return. Look at me now.

Only one street lamp illuminates the equally empty alley, and I pass garbage cans and empty graffiti bottles as I approach the very end of it. The door I’m met with looks exactly the same; desolated, decayed, with no signs of anything illegal happening on the inside.

I pull the cap on my head lower, covering half of my face, before I press down the handle. I instantly come to another door hidden behind, a bulky person standing guard in front of it. His muscles are bigger than the last time, stretching the fabric of his black uniform. He looks all tough and shit, the kind of man that could kill you with one punch to the throat. I take a quick glance at his face, noting the lines and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The signs of him aging are evident.

A smirk tilts my lips as I feel his imposing stare on me, his arms crossed. I take that as my cue to remove my cap, allowing him to inspect me. His expression morphs into one of confusion, then recognition, and a smile breaks out on his lips.

“Damien.” I nod, sizing him up.

“Fury. Haven’t seen you around in years. Thought you might be dead.” His voice is low, husky, dangerous—just what one would expect from a guard at an underground fight club.

“Not yet,” I reply, keeping my tone even.

“Alright then. Some of the old fighters are down there,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “Think you can take them on?”

“You have no idea how much things have changed.”

Looking me over from head to toe, he hums in approval. “Don’t get beaten to death, rookie.”

He shoves my shoulder lightly, recalling the times I was a young teenager, losing big time against the older, more experienced fighters.

“You know the rules,” he says.

I nod, and he lets me enter the warehouse’s basement below. I know what I’m here to do, and what I hope to achieve. There’s no better place to find contacts for illegal things than an underground club, especially if the same fighters I used to compete against are here. The upbeat music immediately flows through my veins, and the stench of sweat, blood, and perfume assaults my nostrils as I descend the stairs. Women and men alike stand in the crowd, cheering the fighters on, exchanging money while placing bets.

I eye the referee, about to approach him when someone bumps into my shoulder.

“Hey, watch it,” the man growls, his sweaty body clad in nothing but shorts and a headband. He’s taller than me, bulkier and more imposing, clearly a product of years in the ring. Recognition lights up his eyes as he takes in my face.

“Fury, never thought I’d see you again,” he says, noting the changes in my physique since my teenage years.

Vortex—whose real name is Jax—is a swift fighter known for creating a whirlwind of chaos with his unending stamina and aggression. Back when I first started fighting, he was the one who repeatedly beat my ass, trying to drill into me that I’d never belong there. He’s unpredictable, making him lethal, and I underestimated him.

Now, I know better. He’s the best fighter this club has ever seen.

“Vortex. Age hasn’t been too kind to you,” I retort, unable to not poke the bear. His smirk stretches his bloodied, cracked lips, showing a missing front tooth.

“Why are you back?” He eyes me suspiciously.

“Just some old business. Pent-up aggression.”

Without warning, he slams me hard against the wall, gripping my shirt collar tightly while gritting his teeth. “You’re lying.”

I let him hold me there, giving him a wide-toothed grin. “I need to disappear,” I say, and he immediately understands.

“I’ll tell you what,” he leans in, his breath a mix of mint and the metallic scent of blood. The room thrums with the pounding music as the fighting in the background continues, people cheering and screaming. “I know someone who can help you. Buddy price, you know.” The danger and threat in his voice is evident. “But it will cost you a favor.”

That’s how it works in this world; you pay with favors. No matter what, you always pay up. I learned to play this game long ago.

“Tell me what it is first.”

He chuckles, placing my head between his armpit and arm, giving my hair a rough rub with his knuckles. “Smart kid,” he says, then releases me. “There’s a little problem here at the club. See that fighter over there?”

He points to a burly man, torso covered in scars from previous fights, his head bald. The fighter is locked in a conversation with a man in a suit, keeping it low-key, but it’s obvious they’re in some kind of deal.

“I need him dealt with.”

“Give me the contact’s details first,” I demand.

Vortex’s chest rumbles with a chuckle, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen from his short’s pocket. He writes down the name of an illegal contact that’ll help me get exactly what I need. Vortex jabs the pen in my chest, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got five days.”

I swallow my unease, trying to figure out a way to get out of this situation. I need to do this for me and Naya’s sake. Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides away.

Ignoring everyone else, I pocket the paper before making my way over to the referee stationed at the ring’s edge. It’s time to earn the money to get me the contact’s attention.

The referee gives me a once-over, eyeing my clothed body. I remove my shirt, letting my muscles ripple as I survey the ring.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Fury,” I reply, using the same name I used years ago.

The referee stares up at me, surprise flickering across his face for a fleeting second which he quickly conceals. “Welcome back,” he tips his head in respect. “You’re up next,” he gives me a pat on my shoulder.

He nods toward the ring where a man limps out, his face battered and bloodied, while the victor stays in the ring, soaking in the adoration of the crowd.

I crack my neck, letting the adrenaline flow through my body while forgetting the favor asked of me. I enter the ring, and the public screams louder. The man before me is ripped, but I have years of rage flowing through my veins. I used to bask in this shit; when I used to fight with my parents or the orphanages, I always turned to street fighting to let out the anger. It became a second home to me, an outlet for all the rage taking over my life.

A blare rings out in the basement, echoing through the stale air, and the crowd silences in anticipation. The ripped man, muscles bulging, advances with a predatory sneer, lips curling to reveal canines gleaming under the dim lights. He resembles a wild animal—unpredictable yet not unbeatable.

I square my shoulders, adrenaline fueling my body. He stands on his toes for a quick second before immediately lunging for me, throwing a wild haymaker aimed at my temple. I narrowly duck in time, losing balance but quickly righting myself up again while taking a step back to avoid his punch once more.

Alright then, we’re straight in the game.

I take a deep breath, unleashing years of rage from my parents abandoning me, the betrayal of my brother, and the unfairness of the fucking world. It buzzes with the need for an outlet. I dance on my toes, swinging side to side to throw off my opponent’s rhythm before countering a sharp jab to his ribs. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I relish it.

There are no rules here; no protection. It’s all a bloodied game cheered on by the crowd. He retaliates with another punch to my face, and I stagger back, already feeling the bruises blooming on my cheek. I spit out blood, studying his composed demeanor. The violence that ripples through him makes it evident he’s a seasoned fighter here; the smirk on his face lets me know he’s used to victory.

Too fucking bad I’m here on a mission, and I won’t fucking lose. Not when I have my little doll to protect.

I circle him, fists clenched. He throws another punch aimed at my face, making it obvious he relies on his strength and unpredictable moves to win. I may not have fought in years—not since I was a teenager—but I still have the skills thrumming through me as if they’re second nature.

I feint a hook to the left, baiting him to duck, then swiftly deliver an uppercut to his chin. His head snaps back, and the sound of the crowd’s roaring comes from all directions.

Anger glows in his eyes as he wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, growling like an animal. Without a second to spare, he lunges forward, tackling me to the ground. My head slams harshly against the unforgiving surface, causing the world to spin around me, something wet trickling down my temple.

I lose control for a few seconds after that, my head throbbing. I look up at my opponent through blurred vision, taking in his sneer as he looks at the referee, expecting me to yield as if I’ve lost consciousness.

If he believes that, he’s fucking wrong.

With years of pent-up anger and determination to win this fight, I drive my left leg into his shin, pushing through the agony threatening to take me under. The kick takes him by surprise, and he falls to his knees shortly after. I quickly move, the world spinning around me as I straddle his waist, throwing punch after punch to his face, splattering blood.

With a grunt of adrenaline, Naya on my thoughts, I deliver one last punch to his jaw, and his body goes limp beneath me, unconsciousness claiming him. The loudness of the crowd filters through the ringing in my ears, and I notice the money being exchanged from bets won and lost.

The referee approaches with a smirk on his face. He leads me out of the ring, handing over my share of the winnings from both the spectators and the organizers of this underground club.

I glance at the money earned; it’s enough to seek out the contact and pay him for fake identities for me and my little doll to be safe.

As I stagger out of the basement with the money held tight in my hands, adrenaline urges me on. I fucking relish the fight despite the pain pulsating through my muscles.

In the crowd, I meet Vortex’s eye. He nods at me, his lips thin with a barely concealed threat. The message is clear; he can do whatever he wants to me if I fail to deliver.