Page 30 of Ethereally Redeemed

He chuckles, placing my head between his armpit and arm, giving my hair a rough rub with his knuckles. “Smart kid,” he says, then releases me. “There’s a little problem here at the club. See that fighter over there?”

He points to a burly man, torso covered in scars from previous fights, his head bald. The fighter is locked in a conversation with a man in a suit, keeping it low-key, but it’s obvious they’re in some kind of deal.

“I need him dealt with.”

“Give me the contact’s details first,” I demand.

Vortex’s chest rumbles with a chuckle, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen from his short’s pocket. He writes down the name of an illegal contact that’ll help me get exactly what I need. Vortex jabs the pen in my chest, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got five days.”

I swallow my unease, trying to figure out a way to get out of this situation. I need to do this for me and Naya’s sake. Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides away.

Ignoring everyone else, I pocket the paper before making my way over to the referee stationed at the ring’s edge. It’s time to earn the money to get me the contact’s attention.

The referee gives me a once-over, eyeing my clothed body. Iremove my shirt, letting my muscles ripple as I survey the ring.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Fury,” I reply, using the same name I used years ago.

The referee stares up at me, surprise flickering across his face for a fleeting second which he quickly conceals. “Welcome back,” he tips his head in respect. “You’re up next,” he gives me a pat on my shoulder.

He nods toward the ring where a man limps out, his face battered and bloodied, while the victor stays in the ring, soaking in the adoration of the crowd.

I crack my neck, letting the adrenaline flow through my body while forgetting the favor asked of me. I enter the ring, and the public screams louder. The man before me is ripped, but I have years of rage flowing through my veins. I used to bask in this shit; when I used to fight with my parents or the orphanages, I always turned to street fighting to let out the anger. It became a second home to me, an outlet for all the rage taking over my life.

A blare rings out in the basement, echoing through the stale air, and the crowd silences in anticipation. The ripped man, muscles bulging, advances with a predatory sneer, lips curling to reveal canines gleaming under the dim lights. He resembles a wild animal—unpredictable yet not unbeatable.

I square my shoulders, adrenaline fueling my body. He stands on his toes for a quick second before immediately lunging for me, throwing a wild haymaker aimed at my temple. I narrowly duck in time, losing balance but quickly righting myself up again while taking a step back to avoid his punch once more.

Alright then, we’re straight in the game.

I take a deep breath, unleashing years of rage from my parents abandoning me, the betrayal of my brother, and the unfairness of the fucking world. It buzzes with the need for an outlet. I dance on my toes, swinging side to side to throw off my opponent’s rhythm before countering a sharp jab to his ribs.Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I relish it.

There are no rules here; no protection. It’s all a bloodied game cheered on by the crowd. He retaliates with another punch to my face, and I stagger back, already feeling the bruises blooming on my cheek. I spit out blood, studying his composed demeanor. The violence that ripples through him makes it evident he’s a seasoned fighter here; the smirk on his face lets me know he’s used to victory.

Too fucking bad I’m here on a mission, and I won’t fucking lose. Not when I have my little doll to protect.

I circle him, fists clenched. He throws another punch aimed at my face, making it obvious he relies on his strength and unpredictable moves to win. I may not have fought in years—not since I was a teenager—but I still have the skills thrumming through me as if they’re second nature.

I feint a hook to the left, baiting him to duck, then swiftly deliver an uppercut to his chin. His head snaps back, and the sound of the crowd’s roaring comes from all directions.

Anger glows in his eyes as he wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, growling like an animal. Without a second to spare, he lunges forward, tackling me to the ground. My head slams harshly against the unforgiving surface, causing the world to spin around me, something wet trickling down my temple.

I lose control for a few seconds after that, my head throbbing. I look up at my opponent through blurred vision, taking in his sneer as he looks at the referee, expecting me to yield as if I’ve lost consciousness.

If he believes that, he’s fucking wrong.

With years of pent-up anger and determination to win this fight, I drive my left leg into his shin, pushing through the agony threatening to take me under. The kick takes him by surprise, and he falls to his knees shortly after. I quickly move, the world spinning around me as I straddle his waist, throwing punchafter punch to his face, splattering blood.

With a grunt of adrenaline, Naya on my thoughts, I deliver one last punch to his jaw, and his body goes limp beneath me, unconsciousness claiming him. The loudness of the crowd filters through the ringing in my ears, and I notice the money being exchanged from bets won and lost.

The referee approaches with a smirk on his face. He leads me out of the ring, handing over my share of the winnings from both the spectators and the organizers of this underground club.

I glance at the money earned; it’s enough to seek out the contact and pay him for fake identities for me and my little doll to be safe.

As I stagger out of the basement with the money held tight in my hands, adrenaline urges me on. I fucking relish the fight despite the pain pulsating through my muscles.

In the crowd, I meet Vortex’s eye. He nods at me, his lips thin with a barely concealed threat. The message is clear; he can do whatever he wants to me if I fail to deliver.

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