Page 82 of Fractured Allegiance
No music.
No lights.
Just the clang of the cage behind me and the silence of men who want to watch someone bleed.
Then the crowd shifts.
Parting like water around something colder.
I see her.
Lydia.
Dragged in through the west corridor, flanked by two of Drazen’s men. They aren’t holding her, but the threat is implicit. She walks like someone who learned long ago that fear is a performance you should never audition for.
She’s not wearing red this time.
Black dress. A neckline that means business. Dark as ink.
She sees me.
No flinch. No startle.
But her expression tightens like she already knows this isn’t about the fight.
Drazen leans down, lips close to her ear, and says something. I can’t hear it.
But I feel it.
The way her spine stiffens. The way she doesn’t blink.
Her gaze drags back to me.
The first opponent steps into the ring.
Big. Loud. Tattooed like a billboard that ran out of space. He raises his fists like he wants applause.
I move before the bell finishes ringing.
Two steps in. Drive my elbow into his throat, then twist under his right hook and drop him with a knee to the gut that makes something inside him fold the wrong way.
He’s coughing blood before he hits the floor.
The crowd erupts.
I don’t care.
I turn my head, just slightly, back toward her.
Lydia’s still there.
Watching.
The second man enters. Leaner. Faster. He thinks footwork makes him dangerous.
I cut under his jab and drive my shoulder into his sternum. He staggers. I grab him by the collar and slam his face against the cage. Once. Twice. Third time he goes limp.
His body slides down like wet rope.
