Page 3 of Ghosted

Control is.

In here, the world gets smaller and the noise fades. Nothing matters except the body in front of me and how fast I can make it break.

The cage strips everything else away: classes, expectations, my last name, Johnny hovering like a bad fucking omen.

What’s left is breath, bone, timing, and pain.

Simple.

Clean.

Mine.

His punch comes fast, but desperate men are sloppy as fuck.

I slip under it and drive my fist into his ribs. The hit travels up my arm, hard and clean, and something gives beneath my knuckles. Not enough to drop him. Just enough to let his body know I found a place that hurts.

His breath punches out of him.

The crowd gets louder.

He staggers back.

I follow.

I’m not rushing this. Rushing is for men who are scared the fight might last long enough to expose them. I already know how this ends. Now I want him to know it too.

He swings again, wild and pissed off, showing me the hit before he ever throws it. I catch his wrist before his fist reaches my face and twist until his shoulder jerks forward.

His expression changes right away.

There’s the fear.

Raw. Honest. Fucking perfect.

I slam my elbow into his jaw.

His head snaps sideways, blood and sweat cutting through the air under the flickering lights. The cage rattles when the crowd surges forward, bodies slamming into chain-link, voices rising until the music nearly disappears beneath them.

Someone near the front starts the chant.

“Wraith! Wraith! Wraith!”

It catches fast.

Spreads through the warehouse like smoke.

He tries to back up, but the cage stops him. I step in and cut off the other side, leaving him nowhere to go except through me.

Bad fucking option.

His eyes flick past my shoulder, searching for the ref, for a way out, for someone to save him from the stupid choice that dragged him in here.

That’s the thing about fear. People think it makes you run.

Sometimes it just locks you in place and lets you watch what’s coming.

I almost feel bad for him.