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Before he can recover, I hook my leg viciously behind his knee and yank with everything I have. He crashes down hard onto the mat but snatches my wrist in a desperate grip, dragging me down with him. We roll across the blood-slick surface in a chaotic tangle of limbs and fury. Any pretense of playfulness is long gone. I slam my knee repeatedly into his side—once, twice, three times—feeling his ribs give under the force. I know I've cracked at least two. My forearm presses across his throat, cutting off his air supply. Thomas bucks wildly like a trapped animal, smearing blood between our bodies, then finally throws me off with a guttural roar. We both scramble back to our feet, chests heaving. The entire gym has fallen into stunned silence, every prospect and member now watching intently.

Thomas feints high and sweeps low. I twist mid-fall, landing on my hands and kicking out. My heel connects with his thigh, the jarring impact traveling up my leg. He staggers but stays upright. I’m already back on my feet in an instant. The defiant smirk still playing on my bloody lip despite the growing fire in my ribs and jaw. “I fucking guess so.” He spits a thick mouthful of blood onto the mat, eyes blazing.

My vision tunnels. No more games. I explode forward in a relentless, brutal flurry—jab to the jaw that rocks him, a right cross that snaps his head back with a wet crunch, elbow slicing toward his temple, knee driving viciously up into his gut. He manages to block most, but I’m operating on vicious precision now, every strike forged in nights where losing meant death.

One punch slips through and rocks his skull. Another sinks deep into his liver, making him wheeze. He grabs desperately at my waist, trying to wrestle me down, but I snap my forehead forward in a devastating headbutt straight into his already shattered nose. The second crack is somehow more satisfying and worse at the same time, the bone grinding audibly under the force. Thomas roars in pure agony, shoving me away with all his remaining strength. I stumble but catch my balance quickly, fresh blood now trickling from my own split forehead where skin met bone. We circle each other in the center of the ring, breathing ragged and labored, the mat treacherously slick beneath our feet with sweat, blood, and spit. My body screams in protest from a dozen new and old injuries, but I feel more raw, more alive, more unbarred than I have in months. Every scar, every secret, every betrayal fuels the fire raging inside me.

“Enough!” Switch’s authoritative voice cuts through the red haze like a blade. He vaults between the ropes in one fluid motion, stepping directly into the chaos between us.

Neither of us stops right away. Thomas lunges forward again in blind rage, but Corbin grabs me from behind—his strong, unyielding arms locking around my waist and yanking me back against the solid wall of his chest. I struggle instinctively, adrenaline still surging hot and wild through my veins, but his grip holds like iron, grounding me.

Fuse is in the ring, arms locked around Thomas in the same way to keep us both from lunging. “Stand down. Both of you!” he barks, the commanding tone slicing through the lingering haze.

My chest heaves violently against Corbin. I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my thumb and finally meet Thomas’s eye. There’s a mix of exhaustion and an untamed feral edge reflected back at me.

Thomas laughs low and rough, clutching his ruined nose as blood continues to pour between his fingers. “She’s good, Switch. Real fucking good.” He glances at me again, pain and reluctant admiration warring across his battered face. “You aren’t supposed to know how to fight like that, Redline.”

The pointed reference to Redline Revenant stings fresh, but I shrug it off with forced nonchalance, rolling my sore shoulder. The motion pulls taut at the prominent knife scar across my collarbone, making it stand out starkly under the bright lights. “What do you mean I’m not supposed to? Where are you getting your information, you little rat?”

He lunges again, trying to get out of Fuse’s grip, but it doesn’t work. Corbin’s protective hold tightens a moment longer than necessary, his warmth seeping into my back. He finally releases me but stays close with one large hand steady on my arm as if he’s afraid I might lunge again. The other prospects and members stare wide-eyed, like they just witnessed a full-blown underground cage fight instead of a simple training spar. Mason points between us excitedly. “Nah, hold on—what the fuck was that?”

I manage to inject an innocent tone into my voice despite the crashing adrenaline. “What was what?”

“You fighting like a goddamn assassin,” he snarls.

“Maybe you just suck, babe. Sorry you had to find out like this.” Uneasy laughter ripples through the room, diffusing some of the tension, though the blood splatters on the mats tell the unfiltered truth of what just happened.

Switch’s voice comes out flat but final. “That’s enough for today. Tatum, Thomas—I’m talking directly to you both. Next time, actually follow the fucking drill.”

My eyebrows shoot up, but the smirk returns, slower and sharper than before. “Yes, sir.”

Thomas nods through the pain, still trying to stem the bleeding. “Yes, sir.”

Yeah, bitch. Cower like the pussy you are.

The adrenaline is crashing through me, leaving my legs shaky and my pulse scattered. I stand, arms loosely wrapped around my middle as I try to catch my breath.

Why didn’t they tell me?

Why the fuck didn’t Lennox or Switch open their fucking mouths? Or any of the others? Someone could have mentioned who snitched.

He just has all this information on me, and nobody bats an eye? Are they all fucking dicks for brains? Why didn’t they look into him? Why didn’t they think to dig deeper instead of just taking his word?

The questions burn hotter with every second. I shake my head slightly, jaw clenched.

They should’ve said something. They should’ve checked him out. He handed them dirt on me, and they just…accepted it? What the fuck were they thinking? I deserve to know who sold me out before now.

TATUM

The second we both concede, his hand locked around my wrist like a vice and he hauled me out of the ring, ignoring the questions and Fuse’s new commands still echoing behind us.

“Corbin—let go,” I snap, yanking against his grip as he drags me across the gym floor. My ribs scream with every step, my split lip throbs, and fresh blood trickles down my chin, but the adrenaline is still roaring through me. I’m wired, pissed, and nowhere near done. He doesn’t slow down. We cross the entire building, boots thudding against concrete, until he shoves open the door to the back locker room. The heavy steel door slams shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the gym.

Finally letting go of my wrist, he grabs a towel and tosses it over to me without looking. I snatch it out of the air one-handed and press it hard to my bleeding lip, glaring at him the whole time. His dark eyes drag over me—taking in the fresh bruises, the cut on my forehead, the blood on my knuckles—with a storm of concern, heat, and barely-leashed frustration.

“Come on,” he growls, jerking his head toward the medical room where the sink and first aid kits are. “Before you bleed all over the damn floor.”

I follow, jaw tight, every muscle still coiled from the fight. “You don’t get to drag me around like I’m your property after what you just fucking pulled.”