Page 2 of Ghosted

I don’t fight like the rest of them.

I don’t storm in swinging or waste breath screaming and shit talking. I don’t throw pointless punches just to prove I can. Men like that are easy to break because their anger gets there before their brain does.

I wait, and I watch.

I let them make the first mistake, then I become the thing they can’t get away from.

By the time they realize I’m close enough to hurt them, it’s already too fucking late.

And eventually, people stopped asking for my name and started chanting the one they gave me instead.

Wraith.

Nobody down here cares that Jagger Cutter is the man they’re chanting for.

People love a monster more when they don’t have to know where he sleeps, what classes he skips, what last name he carries, or who taught him how to throw his first punch.

Johnny taught me, for the record.

My older brother by fifteen months, though he acts like those months came with a crown and a divine fucking right to ruin my life whenever he gets bored.

Johnny taught me how to hit first, lie better, and smile when something hurts. He taught me how to survive people who smell weakness like blood in water.

He also taught me that the ones who love you can ruin you faster than any enemy ever could.

The guy in front of me raises his fists again. His right eye is already swelling, his lip split down the middle, blood dripping from his chin onto his chest.

He’s tough. I’ll give him that.

Tough enough to keep standing, and yet too stupid to realize standing is the worst thing he can do right now.

The referee shifts along the edge of the cage, watching us closely. He’s only here to keep people from dying too obviously.

Everything else is considered entertainment.

The crowd chants louder, hungry for the part where I stop playing with him and start ending this.

Wraith.

Wraith.

Wraith.

The name rolls through the warehouse like a fucking warning.

Like I’m something that slips through the dark and leaves bodies behind.

The bell rings.

The guy charges. Well, that’s his second mistake.

Everyone thinks I fight because I’m angry.

Because I’m fucked up. Like there’s something rotten in me that needs somewhere to go.

They’re not completely wrong.

But anger isn’t why I step into the cage.