I could smell the steel and sweat before the bell even rang. The ring had been transformed into a hellscape—barbed wire twisted along the ropes like jagged vines, tables set up on the outside already splintered, as if daring us to finish the job. In one corner, a steel trash can overflowed with horrors: kendo sticks, light tubes, a staple gun, even a damn gardening hoe. This wasn’t just a fight. It was war.
The lights dimmed to crimson as Gunther made his entrance, stoic and monstrous, dragging a thick chain behind him. The crowd buzzed with uneasy excitement—this wasn’t going to be pretty, and they knew it. I cracked my neck once, my wings gone tonight—this wasn’t a night for symbols or hope. I didn’t come out dressed like justice. I came out dressed for vengeance. “Still think you’re scary with that chain?” I shouted over the ropes, eyeing him like a wolf might a bear.
Gunther just sneered. “I don’t need to be scary, little Angel. I just need to be thorough.”
The bell rang—and he rushed me like a damn freight train. I ducked under his arm and smashed a steel baking tray across the back of his head, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He stumbled, surprised, and I followed it up with a dropkick that sent him staggering into the barbed wire ropes. They clung to his back like hungry claws. “Didn’t expect me to hit back so hard, huh?” I growled.
“You fight like a feral child,” he grunted, pulling himself off the barbed wire, a few rivulets of blood beginning to streak down his back.
“Funny. You scream like one too.”
He charged again, this time with that chain, and got it wrapped around my waist. He yanked me off my feet and sent me crashing into the mat, winding me. Before I could catch my breath, he dropped a knee into my ribs. I hissed, vision swimming. “You hit like a truck.”
“Better than being hit like a brat with wings and delusions.”
Oh, that was it. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the trash can lid, and swung it like a discus into his jaw. He staggered. I kipped up and slammed the lid into his skull again and again until it was bent out of shape. Then I pulled the staple gun from the pile and pressed it against his shoulder. He froze. “You wouldn’t—”
CHTUNK.
He screamed. I did it again.
CHTUNK.
“Who’s the brat now, Gunther?”
He caught me with a sudden boot to the gut, then hurled me backward into the turnbuckle—barbed wire wrapped around it like razor-sharp garland. Pain exploded down my back, and I screamed involuntarily. Gunther stalked over, grabbing a light tube from the floor. “Time to break you,” he muttered.
I saw the flash of glass in the air just in time. I rolled under the bottom rope, but the glass cracked across my arm mid-escape. Blood bloomed instantly. He followed me outside, lifting a tattered table and throwing it aside like a toy. I grabbed a brick—yes, an actual brick—from under the ring and threw it full-force at his chest. He caught it—but it gave me the moment I needed. I hit a running knee that sent us both crashing through one of the tables. Debris rained down. We both lay there, gasping, bloodied and broken.
He was the first to stir, coughing. “Still think you can win this, Angel?”
I wiped blood from my lips, laughing. “Winning’s not the point anymore.”
He pulled me up by my hair. “Then what is?”
I headbutted him. “Making you feel what you made others feel. Every cheap shot. Every sneer. Every time you belittled someone smaller than you. I’m here to collect.”
I shoved him into the ring steps, then dug under the ring until my hand found something familiar—a belt. Thick leather. Heavy buckle. Just like the one my father used on me. I wrapped it around my hand and stormed toward him. “What, gonna give me a spanking?” he taunted.
I whipped it across his back.
Again.
Again.
“No,” I growled. “I’m going to carve your arrogance out, one lash at a time.”
He roared and caught my leg, tossing me backward—right into the shards of a broken light tube. My scream this time wasn’t controlled. I bit down on it, choking on the fire in my spine. We both struggled to our feet. The ring was littered in blood, shards, bent metal, and debris. The crowd had gone from rowdy to stunned. “Stay down,” Gunther snarled. “It’s over.”
I spat a mouthful of blood and smiled. “Not even close.”
With a guttural cry, I flung myself at him, tackling him into the ring post shoulder-first. He bellowed, dropping hard. I dragged him toward the center where a sombrero sat on a chair—mocking this entire match, mocking the culture it was based on, mocking me. I climbed the top rope, barely able to stand. He rose groggily. I dove—flying clothesline.
Gunther lay sprawled across the mat, his chest heaving, blood matting his hair, shards of light tube glinting like cursed snow around him. I could’ve ended it. The sombrero sat on the chair just a few feet away, the supposed victory condition—some ridiculous symbol of triumph in this nightmare of a match. But I didn’t move toward it. My eyes stayed locked on Gunther.
The crowd was screaming—some chanting my name, some too stunned to speak. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in that moment except the thundering beat of my own heart and the fire boiling inside me. The fire I’d held back for so long. I wanted to hurt him. Not just beat him. Not just win.
A glint of metal caught my eye. Among the broken wreckage of a shattered tool kit, I saw it—a jagged, twisted screwdriver, its edge stained with something old. I picked it up with a slow, deliberate movement, my bloodied fingers wrapping around it like it was made just for me. Gunther groaned, trying to push himself up.
Perfect. I stood over him, the screwdriver raised like a dagger, my body trembling—not with pain, but with fury. Righteous fury. No referees stepped in. No medics dared. There were no disqualifications, no rules. No saving him.
Only me.
Only vengeance.
Only fire.
“Say it,” I hissed, my voice low and shaking. “Say you were wrong. Say you’re done hurting people.”
He blinked up at me, blood running down his temple, and actually had the nerve to smirk. That was the final spark. I reared the screwdriver back—
And the crowd erupted. I barely had time to register the thunder of boots before arms wrapped around mine, wrenching me backward just as the screwdriver slipped from my hand and clattered across the mat. The sombrero hit the ground too, knocked from the chair in the chaos. “Angel!” a voice barked—firm, desperate.
Cody.
His arms were tight around my wrists, his face inches from mine, his breathing ragged. His eyes weren’t angry—they were afraid. “Stop,” he said, holding me steady. “Stop. This—this isn’t you.”
I struggled in his grip, my breath coming in sharp gasps. “He deserves—!”
“No. No, he doesn’t get to turn you into this,” Cody cut in, his voice firmer now. “I’ve watched it. This fire in you—it’s different. It’s not the kind that protects people anymore. It’s burning you alive, Angel. You need to come back.”
The words hit harder than any chair shot ever could. I froze. My hands trembled in his. My eyes locked on his, searching, shaking, trying to understand if he really saw it. If I was too far gone. And then—too fast for either of us to stop it—Gunther surged up from the mat with a roar and grabbed Cody by the shoulder. “No!” I cried.
But Gunther had already flung him over the top rope like dead weight, Cody’s body crashing hard onto the floor below. Everything in me snapped. “CODY!” I screamed, my voice raw and fractured. The screwdriver was still on the mat. And now… Gunther was smiling again.
Gunther's smirk twisted into something feral. The bastard was still standing. I barely had time to breathe before he was on me again, his boot slamming into my ribs and sending me crashing into a pile of broken glass and a warped steel chair. Pain exploded in my side, but it didn’t stop me. Nothing would.
I scrambled back up, blood soaking through the gash in my arm, my fists clenched tight. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” I snarled, spit and blood flying from my lips. “You think I’m scared of you?”
Gunther didn’t answer. He lunged at me, and we collided in a flurry of fists and fury. I drove my elbow into his face, then ducked under a wild swing, grabbing a section of bent rebar from the floor and slamming it across his back. He grunted, but didn’t fall. Neither of us were going to. He threw me off with a roar, and I landed hard, my back arching off the mat from the impact. My fingers clawed at the ropes, trying to pull myself up. But then—
A shadow loomed over me.
Gunther. And in his hand… the screwdriver. My own weapon. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” he sneered, the blood on his face making him look inhuman. “Let’s see how you like it.”
He raised it over his head. And then everything stopped. The crowd’s roar turned from chaos to something else—shouts of alarm, disbelief. I blinked, dazed. And then I saw her. A tiny figure, no more than four years old, her dark curls bouncing as she walked into the ring like she owned it.
Liberty.
Cody’s little girl.
She stood between Gunther and me, her tiny arms spread wide, her little chin jutted out defiantly like she wasn’t afraid of anything. “Leave my Auntie Angel alone!” she shouted, her voice high and fierce. “You’re mean! You need to go home and take a nap!”
My heart slammed to a halt. Gunther stared down at her in disbelief, the screwdriver still raised. “What the hell is this?”
He actually chuckled.
“You gonna cry to Daddy, little brat?”
My blood turned to fire. The darkness didn’t vanish—it still lingered like smoke after a fire. But through the cracks carved by rage and pain, the real me—the part I thought I’d lost—finally pushed through the shadows and reminded me she was still there. I pushed myself up, body screaming in agony, and stepped in front of Liberty, my arms shielding her completely. I glared at Gunther with all the fury in the world, but now there was something else in my eyes too—clarity.
“If you lay one hand on her,” I said, my voice low and deadly, “I swear I will break every bone in your body. I don’t care what this match is. I won’t let you touch her.”
He laughed again, eyes gleaming. “Oh, but you, I can touch all I want.”
He swung the screwdriver down at me. I didn’t flinch. I stood there. The blade slashed across both of my forearms, deep, hot pain burning through my nerves. Blood poured instantly.
I didn’t move. I didn’t scream. I just stood my ground—because she was behind me. And I would never let her get hurt. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Cody, finally getting up, his face bruised and eyes wide with horror. “Cody!” I called out, voice strained but unwavering. “She’s here!”
He turned just in time to see her.
His daughter.
“Libby—!” he was on his feet, running, flying toward the ring. Gunther tried to stop him, but I blocked his path with my body, blood dripping down my arms like war paint. Cody slid into the ring and scooped Liberty into his arms, holding her tight, shielding her with every ounce of strength he had. And then he was gone, retreating to safety, the crowd parting for him like the sea. I turned back to Gunther. It was just us again. And I wasn’t done.
We traded more blows—him with fists like hammers, me with sheer willpower. I caught him with a spin kick, he caught me with a brick to the ribs. Blood blurred my vision, but I kept swinging. But I was fading. Fast.
My knees buckled after a final strike to the jaw. I hit the mat, the world spinning, my chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. I could barely feel my body anymore. I heard him laugh. Then the sound of him grabbing the sombrero. The bell rang.
The match was over. Gunther had won. He slid out of the ring, arms raised in mock triumph, while medics swarmed past him like he didn’t even exist. I laid there, motionless, my eyes fluttering as bright lights burned above me.
Voices blurred. Then I heard one—sharp, panicked, familiar.
“Let me through! I don’t care—LET ME THROUGH!”
My vision cleared just enough to see Cody pushing through the medics, his face pale, stained with his own sweat and blood. “Angel,” he whispered, dropping to his knees beside me, his hand instantly grabbing mine. “Angel, I’m here. I’m here, okay?”
I tried to speak, but my throat wouldn’t work. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said again, voice cracking. “You’re gonna be okay. You saved her. You saved both of us.”
I managed one look at him. And even as everything went black around the edges, I squeezed his hand back.
ns216.73.217.69da2
and then Add to home screen.