I woke up to a dull ache in my arm, the kind of soreness that hinted at something violent, something I couldn't quite remember. Shadows of pain lingered in my body, but the memories refused to surface. My hair felt shorter as I ran my fingers through it—still long enough to reach my jaw, but not quite the way it used to be.
"Finally awake," a voice murmured behind me, warm and teasing. A pair of arms slipped around my chest, holding me—not just in comfort, but with something else, something unspoken.
"Kaya," I exhaled, my voice rasping from sleep. "How long have you been here?"
"Only a few minutes," she said, releasing me and shifting into a cross-legged position behind me. "As weird as I am, I don't make a habit of watching people sleep." A pause. Then, with a smirk curling her lips, "Maybe with the exception of you."
I ignored the remark, standing to face the mirror. My reflection bore shallow bruises, traces of last night's brutality. Kaya's gaze trailed over me, lingering on my lean, hunger-carved frame.
"You don't have to go today," she murmured, her voice softer now.
I pulled on my black sleeveless hoodie and matching joggers, flexing my fingers as I reached for my gloves. "We have to eat, don't we?" I glanced at her. "Besides, just three more fights, and I'm the official champion."
There was a flicker of something in her eyes—worry, maybe?—and whatever excitement I had deflated at the sight of it.
"I'll be fine, Mom," I teased, forcing a grin before slipping out the door.
The air thickened with the scent of sweat and blood long before I reached the fight club. Even from a distance, the sound of screaming cut through the noise of the streets. A familiar voice.
Harry.
My body moved before my mind caught up, cutting through the crowd. I didn't see who was hitting him—I didn't care. I leapt forward, delivering a dropkick straight into the bastard's chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Blood splattered from his lips as he coughed.
"Harry, can you stand?" I asked, ignoring the chorus of boos erupting around me. I knew I'd broken the rules—you don't interfere in a fight unless it's over—but there was no universe in which I'd stand by and let them tear Harry apart.
"Caster, what the hell are you doing?" the referee barked—just some kid, younger than me, powerless to stop the chaos.
"I challenge you, Brolly," I said, leveling my gaze at the man I'd just drop-kicked. He was already back on his feet, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, a grin splitting his face.
"Two rats against me?" he chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "This'll be fun."
The word "two" sent a dark thrill through me. He thought he could take both of us? He could've given me a run for my money one-on-one, but together? He'd made a mistake. Harry and I weren't just fighters—we were something else entirely.
"Harry," I said, offering him my hand. "Shall we give him the premium experience?"
Harry cracked a tired grin. "Is Kaya watching?"
I glanced over. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, a wicked smile on her lips, holding up a sign that read: Take him to hell.
"She says to take him to hell."
That was all the encouragement we needed.
When I came to, the world had shifted.
I was on the ground, and Brolly was beside me—unmoving. Passed out. My body screamed in protest as I forced myself up, barely remembering how we'd beaten him. The details blurred together, lost in the haze of adrenaline and violence. But I knew one thing: we had won.
Then his people came for us. And this time, we lost.
Bones cracked, skin split, and by the time I managed to drag Harry back to my place, his arm hung at an unnatural angle.
My vision blurred with rage. I collapsed onto the floor, fists slamming against the wooden boards. Again. And again. And again.
"Those bastards," I growled, blood smearing the ground beneath me.
My knuckles were raw, my breath ragged. I didn't care. The rage had me in its grip, and I had no intention of letting go.
Then soft, pale hands cupped my face—steady, firm. And then—a slap.
"Stop it," Kaya said, her voice quiet, but laced with steel.
I froze.
"Look what they did to Harry," I said, my voice barely a whisper, shame and fury warring in my chest. "They broke his arm."
"Punching the floor won't hurt them," she said simply. "It's only hurting you, Caster."
She was staring at me in that way she rarely did—with something unguarded, something genuine. And just like that, the anger seeped out of me.
"If you feel powerless," she murmured, arms slipping around my neck, "then get rid of whatever makes you feel that way. Until you don't feel that way anymore."
My eyes flicked to hers, sharp and unyielding. "That includes you, though."
A smirk played at her lips as she leaned in, slow, deliberate. Then—
A gentle bite to my lower lip.
"Then do something about it," she whispered.
And so I did.
My hands found her waist, pulling her flush against me. She barely had time to inhale before my lips crashed against hers. It wasn't warmth that spread through me—it was fire. It licked up my spine, igniting every nerve, every inch of me that still ached from the fight. My fingers slipped beneath her shirt, tracing the delicate lines of her back, feeling the tension coiled beneath her skin.
Her own hand pressed against my chest, fingertips teasing along each defined ridge before moving lower. Slowly. Intentionally. I felt the smirk forming against my lips—she was playing a game.
So I played back.
The battle shifted from fists to something far more dangerous, a war of will and restraint. Control slipped, replaced by instinct, by heat, by the unspoken challenge hanging between us.
Harry was somewhere behind us, unconscious. It didn't matter. Nothing did.
There were no words now, only movement, only fire.
And then—
The sharp scrape of a razor against the wall.
My eyes snapped open.