Alex's POV:
I walked back to my apartment, head down, thoughts racing. The events of the day kept looping in my mind like a busted reel. Every word, every glance, every moment—it all echoed inside me, loud and suffocating.
"Damn it…" I muttered under my breath. "I shouldn't have acted like that. I should've had more self-control."
My fists clenched at my sides, trembling with a mix of frustration and guilt. The anger I'd tried to push down still simmered under my skin, hot and relentless. I hated losing control. Hated the part of me that surfaced when things went wrong.
When I reached the apartment, I slammed the door shut behind me. I stripped out of my clothes and threw on a black hoodie and ripped jeans. My hands shook as I fumbled with the keys to my motorcycle. I couldn't sit still. I had to move. Had to do something.
I stepped back out into the night. The sharp click of my boots echoed along the pavement. I pulled out my phone, the glow of the screen lighting up my face. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number and hit call.
The phone rang twice before Coach answered, his gravelly voice cutting through.
"Hello?"
"Coach, get me a fight tonight," I said. My voice came out tight. Low.
"Hey, hey, slow down, kiddo," Coach said cautiously. "What's going on? I thought we agreed—you were gonna quit. Focus on racing, stay clean."
"Please, Coach," I cut in, voice trembling just enough for him to hear it. "Just get me a fight. Tonight."
He didn't answer at first. The silence on the line was heavy. Coach knew that tone—I didn't have to explain. He'd heard it before. On nights when everything I kept bottled up came boiling over.
He sighed. "Alright. Be here before seven."
I didn't say another word. I hung up, slipped on my helmet, and straddled my bike. The engine roared to life, rumbling through me like thunder. I gripped the handlebars tight and peeled off into the city streets, the cold wind slicing across my face as I picked up speed.
I didn't stop. Didn't slow down. The engine screamed beneath me, louder than my thoughts, louder than the guilt clawing at my chest. All I could hear was my heart pounding and the wind howling past my ears.
By the time I reached the underground arena, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the sharp stench of adrenaline. Fists cracked against flesh in every corner. The cage in the center pulsed with tension.
Coach spotted me the moment I stepped in.
He walked over, arms crossed, scanning me like he always did. I saw the way his eyes narrowed when he took in the dark circles under mine. The slouched posture. The storm I was barely holding back.
"You look like hell, pretty boy," he muttered. "You sure you're up for this?"
I didn't respond. My eyes met his, and I knew he saw it—the thing I didn't want to name. That edge. That darkness.
Coach sighed again, deeper this time. "You've got the Devil's look in your eyes tonight, kid. I don't like it."
I brushed past him without a word and headed to the locker room.
"You go in there with your mind clouded like that," he called after me, "you're either gonna get your ass kicked or you'll kill someone. Don't make me regret this."
But I was already gone.
I changed quickly. Muscle memory took over as I wrapped my knuckles in black tape. My fingers worked without needing instruction. I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. That face staring back at me—tired, hollow-eyed, worn too thin. The boy with no parents. No family. Just a cold apartment, a busted-up bike, and fists that had done too much damage.
This was how I survived. Fists and speed. Pain and silence. Coach had found me when I was ten—skinny, starving, sleeping in the back of a rusted-out trailer. He taught me how to fight. How to ride. How to keep breathing even when I didn't want to.
I owed him everything.
But tonight wasn't about debts. Tonight was about bleeding something out of me before it drowned me.
The announcer's voice echoed through the warehouse speakers.
"Next up—The Pretty Boy Killer! Make some noise for Alex!"
The crowd roared. Some cheered, some booed, but all of them were waiting. Watching. I had a reputation here. Even with my lean build and face people mistook for soft, the smart ones knew better. They'd seen what I was capable of.
I stepped into the cage, my body loose, breathing steady. Across from me stood a guy twice my size—covered in tattoos, muscles stacked like bricks, a long scar running down his face. He sneered.
"You sure you're in the right place, pretty boy?" he taunted. "I don't wanna break your little doll face."
I didn't answer.
The bell rang.
He charged, wild and reckless, swinging for my jaw.
I ducked.
His fist cut through air. I countered with a quick jab to his ribs and followed with a sharp elbow to his chin. He staggered, caught off guard.
The crowd went wild.
He came back hard, throwing punches left and right. I moved like smoke, dodging, weaving, slipping past his strikes. And every time he missed, I punished him—my knee slammed into his gut, my fist cracked into his throat, a kick nailed his ribs.
Blood spattered across the mat.
He finally landed one—caught me in the shoulder. It sent me stumbling back.
The crowd gasped.
But I didn't fall.
I looked up. And something inside me snapped.
I lunged. My fists became fire. Left. Right. Elbow. Knee. Every strike carved out the pain, the memories, the rage I carried. I didn't see just him. I saw every ghost. Every man who laughed while I was helpless. Every scream I didn't stop.
I beat him down, didn't stop until the ref tore me off him.
It was over.
I stood there in the center of the cage, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. Blood on my fists. Silence in the crowd. Even they felt it—that I hadn't fought to win. I fought because I needed to hurt.
I walked out without looking back. Didn't speak. Didn't meet anyone's eyes.
I headed to the locker room. Bloodied. Bruised. But quieter inside.
Coach was waiting near the exit when I came out.
"You scare me sometimes, kid," he said. His voice was softer than usual. "You fight like you got nothing left to lose."
I looked at him. Whatever fire had been in my eyes earlier—it was gone now.
"Maybe I don't," I said.