Seraphina’s POV
The locker room slled like sweat and blood and desperation.
Just like .
I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Bruises everywhere. Split lip from yesterday. Black eye from the day before that. Cut above my eyebrow that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter how many butterfly bandages I slapped on it.
Three fights in five days.
My body was screaming at to stop. Every muscle ached. My ribs were probably cracked. My hands were so swollen I could barely make a fist.
But I couldn’t stop.
Because if I stopped fighting, I’d start thinking. And if I started thinking, I’d rember.
"Sera!" Rico burst through the door, his face tight with worry. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Getting ready." I pulled on my hand wraps with shaking fingers. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you’re about to collapse." He grabbed my shoulders, forcing to look at him.
"I’m fighting," I said flatly. "Are you going to let , or do I need to find another manager?"
Rico stared at for a long mont. Then he sighed, defeated. "Fine. But if you get hurt—really hurt—that’s on you."
"Noted."
He left, shaking his head.
I finished wrapping my hands. The movents were automatic now. I’d done this so many tis I could do it blind.
Just like I was doing everything blind lately. Fighting blind. Sleeping blind. Living blind.
The crowd noise filtered through the walls. Loud tonight. Really loud. Must be a good turnout.
More people to watch get destroyed.
Perfect.
"Five minutes!" Soone shouted through the door.
I stood up. My legs wobbled. When was the last ti I ate? Yesterday? The day before?
Couldn’t rember.
Didn’t matter.
I pushed through the door and headed toward the ring entrance. The hallway was dark. Narrow. The perfect tunnel to hell.
My opponent was already warming up when I got there. Big guy. Maybe six-three. Built like a tank. Scars everywhere.
A wolf. I could sll it on him even from here.
Great.
"You’re fighting him?" Rico appeared beside , his face pale. "Sera, he’s—"
"I don’t care who he is."
"He’s killed people in the ring!"
"Then I’ll be in good company."
The announcer’s voice bood through the warehouse. "Ladies and gentlen! Our main event!"
The crowd erupted.
"In the red corner—weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds!"
Cheers. Screams. People were losing their minds.
"And in the blue corner—"
I stepped through the curtain.
The noise hit like a wall. Deafening. Overwhelming.
"—weighing in at one hundred and thirty pounds—SERA!"
The cheers turned to boos. Of course.
I climbed into the ring on autopilot. My body knew what to do even if my brain was sowhere else.
The referee called us to center. The man towered over , grinning like this was already over.
Maybe it was.
"Touch gloves."
His fist t mine with enough force to make my bones rattle. Showing off. Intimidating.
I didn’t care.
We returned to our corners. Rico was climbing through the ropes, his face grim.
"Listen to ," he said urgently. "This guy is dangerous. You need to be smart. Fast. Don’t let him corner you."
I nodded. Heard nothing.
The bell rang.
He ca at like a freight train.
I barely got my guard up in ti. His first punch caught my forearm so hard I thought the bone might snap. His second hit my ribs—the already cracked ones—and I tasted blood.
The crowd roared.
I circled away. Tried to. My feet were sluggish. Too slow. Too tired.
He cut off easily. Drove toward the ropes with a combination that made my vision blur.
Left hook to my jaw. Right cross to my temple. Uppercut that snapped my head back.
I went down hard.
The canvas was rough against my cheek. Warm. Wet with my own blood.
"One!"
The referee’s count sounded far away. Like he was shouting from underwater.
"Two!"
Everything hurt. My face. My ribs. My hands. My heart.
"Three!"
The crowd was screaming. Probably betting on which second I’d stay down for good.
"Four!"
I could just... stop. Right here. Right now. Close my eyes and let it all fade away.
No more pain. No more mories. No more seeing his face every ti I closed my eyes.
"Five!"
*Dead people don’t hurt.*
The thought was so clear. So simple. So tempting.
"Six!"
My vision started going dark around the edges. Not from the hits. From sothing else. Sothing deeper.
Giving up.
"Seven!"
Then I heard it. Through the crowd noise. Through the ringing in my ears. Through everything.
A child’s voice. High and sweet and achingly familiar.
*"Mama!"*
Not real. Couldn’t be real.
But it was enough.
"Eight!"
Adrian. Lily. My babies.
They were out there sowhere. Growing up. Living. Breathing.
Without .
And now I was going to die in so shitty warehouse and they’d never know. Never understand. Never—
"Nine!"
My hand moved. Pressed against the canvas. Shaking. Weak.
But moving.
The crowd’s noise changed. Surprise. Disbelief.
I pushed. My arms scread in protest. My ribs felt like they were tearing apart. Everything in my body begged to stop.
But I couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
My knees hit the canvas. Then my feet. One after the other.
The world tilted violently. I swayed, barely staying upright.
"Ten—" The referee stopped. Stared. "She’s up! She’s up!"
I was standing.
Barely.
My legs trembled like a newborn deer’s. My vision swam with blood and sweat and tears I didn’t rember crying.
But I was standing.
The referee grabbed my face, checking my eyes. "Can you continue?"
I nodded. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust my voice.
"Fight!"
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