Page 1 of Bound By Valor

ONE

Leora

He was dead.

Good.

A deep, dark part of me wished I had been the one to end Adriano, not some faceless thug in prison. The main reason I had accepted the Resident Psychologist position at the Toronto South Detention Centre instead of the northern one was him; he was locked up there. The irony of it was biting, cruel almost.

As I stared at the email from my lawyer confirming his death, a swirl of relief and regret churned inside me. This should have been good news—freedom from a past that haunted me. Yet, there lingered a gnawing desire, a primal wish that I had been the one to kill him. Wasn’t that how all women felt about their exes?

Maybe not.

My train of thought was interrupted by the buzz of my phone. I always kept it silent, a habit ingrained during my time with Adriano. He despised hearing it ring at night. Looking back, his rage over such trivial things should have been a red flag.

I watched my phone, vibrating in my hand, with ‘Mom’ flashing on the screen. Staring, frozen, I let it buzz through until it slipped into voicemail.

???

An hour later, I walked into my gym and greeted the coach with a nod before diving into my warm-up routine. It was a regular intermediate kickboxing class, one I had been attending for the past year.

Was I getting any better?

Probably.

Did I actively use MMA to release my pent-up rage?

Absolutely.

It wasn’t just a hobby; it was a necessity, a vital release. The ghost of Adriano clung to me, a relentless shadow darkening every moment of peace I might find. The weight on my chest felt unshakable.This weight, this ever-present pressure on my chest, seemed immovable.

So, I embraced the brutal rhythm of MMA. There was a twisted irony in it. I’d felt the sting of blows before, the memories lost to the fog of trauma-induced amnesia.

What a fucking blessing!

My body knew, even if my mind refused to remember. Each strike I landed reverberated back to me, echoing off the gym walls. Every punch thrownfelt like justice, a declaration of strength I had once believed stripped from me.

I didn’t linger after class; I made a beeline for the exit, eager to leave the sweat and exertion behind. The subway ride home was as nondescript as any other, but once I emerged, a spontaneous decision steered me off my usual path. I needed a smoke—a quick detour to the convenience store seemed harmless enough.

There are moments where your life takes a turn. When the monotonous, fluid rhythm of your days morphs into something rigid and eventually breaks, leaving you to deal with the scatter.

I didn’t realize it then, but that detour was about to cost me.

As I neared the store, the air grew tense. From the dark alley beside the store, voices clashed—a sharp, fraught exchange that sliced through the night’s calm.

“Don’t fucking move,” came a man’s frustrated voice.

“I’m not moving, but are you sure you want to kill me?” another man replied, his voice strained and weary. A chill ran through my veins.

It was 11:30 PM in a shady part of Toronto, and the night was darker than usual. Despite being accustomed to hearing about violence, encountering it firsthand in this grim alley still sent a shiver through me. As I cautiously peered around the corner, two men stood menacingly over a dark-haired man sprawled on the ground, clutching his stomach. The attackers, their backs to me, were caught up in a heated interrogation.

“Who sent you?” the one with blonde hair demanded.

“You tell me. I’m not the one responsible forrandom security hacks in the financial district,” the injured man said.

“He’s a fucking narc. I told you!” his companion with a buzz cut shouted.

I was about to dial 911 when my phone vibrated with an incoming message.

---