Page 6 of Shadows of Steel

His smirk returns, sharp as glass. “I don’t. But it’d be a shame if you fell apart before proving you can take me.”

I step back, just out of reach, and grin. “Good to know I’m worth the effort.”

The match continues, neither of us willing to give an inch. Defeat is simply not an option.

But I’m fighting a professional boxer. Despite my skill, my speed, my stubborn resolve, he’s way better. And I know he’s holding back. His strikes are sharper, his movements more calculated, and with one final combination, a feint followed by a swift uppercut, I falter.

The impact knocks me off balance. My back hits the mat hard, a brisk jolt radiating through my body. I grit my teeth, pushing down the frustration as I catch my breath.

Enzo steps back, his chest rising and falling. He doesn’t gloat or smirk. Instead, he extends a gloved hand. “Good match,” he says, though amusement flickers in his eyes.

I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. “Good match.” I echo, my voice even, though my pride stings.

We step out of the ring together, peeling off the gloves and wraps in silence. Without another word, Enzo moves toward the weight racks, already shifting his focus elsewhere. I do the same, slipping back into my routine.

The hours pass in a blur.

Two classes, sequential, where I guide women and young girls through self-defence techniques. I focus on their stances, correct their grips, encourage their punches, each task a welcome distraction. Each strike, each block, a quiet rebellion against a world that too often preys on those who cannot fight back.

Because I know what it means to be powerless.

I know what it feels like to have control ripped away, to be at the mercy of someone stronger.

I refuse to let them feel that.

By the time the last class ends, a familiar exhaustion settles over me. The kind I can manage, that keeps my mind too busy to wander.

Back in the locker room, I grab my bag and head for the showers. The hot water streams over me, washing away the sweat and tension of the day. It scalds, but I let it burn against my skin.

After drying off, I wrap myself in a towel and pull my bag closer, reaching inside for my body cream and fresh clothes.

That’s when a note falls. It flutters to the floor, a small rectangle of stark white against the cold tile.

My breath catches. For a moment, I just stare at it, my pulse pounding against my ribs. A weightless dread settles heavily in my chest. My fingers curl into a fist, the bite of my nails into my palm helping me focus. I can’t lose it here.

Slowly, I crouch, the towel clinging to my damp skin, and pick up the note. The handwriting is jagged, aggressive. The words are scrawled in blood red ink.

My stomach twists.

From shadows, I’ve watched, from steel, I’ll stay,

No matter the miles, I’m never away.

You changed your name, you crossed the sea,

But you can’t escape, you belong to me.

Each word sears into my mind, haunting, my breath hitching before it morphs into a cold dread edged with fury.

These notes began appearing nearly a year ago. At first, I dismissed them, an oversight, a meaningless coincidence. But then, they started turning up where they had no business being.

My bag, car, even my own room.

For so long, I told myself it was Troy. That it had to be him. But he’s dead now.

I killed him that night. Glass in my hand, his blood pooling on the floor. I ended his life.

And even when he was alive, this was never his style. Troy was brute force, a neophyte who took what he wanted with his bare hands. He didn’t hide behind riddles or cryptic notes. He wouldn’t have had the patience. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it openly, violently, without hesitation.