Page 81 of Brutal Unionn
Both hands brace against the force, the vibration jolting through my arms. The club threatens to push me backward, but I hold on. Redirect the weight. Step behind him and guide the motion off course. My blade lifts, steadies.
It rests at his neck—not slicing, not digging in. Justthere.
“You’re done,” I say, low and steady.
His body sags with the weight of the fight, and the club slips from his hands. He falls forward, not violently, but with gravity—like a tree that’s stood too long against the wind.
I stand tall, still breathing hard, blade in hand, waiting for the next move—because I know better than to think this is over.
The next few fights blur together like a fever dream—flesh, fury, and blood smearing at the edges of consciousness.
“Round Five”
He’s cocky. Young, whip-thin, swinging a chain like it’s an extension of his ego. The kind of guy who learned to fight on YouTube and thinks confidence is the same as competence.
He cracks the chain like a warning shot, grinning. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
My feet move before thought catches up. The chain slices through the air toward my throat—I catch it mid-swing, feel it bite into my palm through the wraps, and yank him forward. He loses balance, surprised. My knee rises like instinct—collides with his face. He’s stunned, reaching for something solid to hold onto.
All I give him is steel. I wrap his own chain around his neck and pull, hard. He gurgles. Kicks. Scratches. But I don’t stop until he stops moving.
I step back, exhale, taste copper on my tongue. My vision flickers. But in the flicker, I seeher.
Nadia.
Painted lips, wicked smile, blade dragging along my collarbone like she’s tracing ownership into my skin.
“You still fantasize about killing me, Sho?” she once purred.
No. I fantasize about ruling beside you.
“Round Six”
Another one barrels in—a knife fighter. Arms covered in crude tattoos, tiger claws etched along his forearms like he wants the world to know he’s a predator. He moves like it too. Fast. Relentless. Slashing in tight arcs meant to disembowel. One cut lands. Right across my shoulder. It burns hot, sharp.
I grunt, step into the pain, and deliver a palm strike to his chin. He stumbles back, and I don’t hesitate. I pivot and drive my blade across his throat. A red line blooms. He tries to speak, but only blood comes. He crumples like wet paper.
The crowd erupts again—cheers, laughter, bets being shouted. But I don’t hear it.
All I hear is Nadia’s voice.“You’ll never survive me.”
And maybe I won’t. But she sure as hell won’t survivewithoutme.
“Round Seven”
She’s different.
No flash. No showmanship. A quiet killer. Her stance is textbook. Measured. Controlled. She goes for joints, pressure points. Lands one hit—a sharp jab to the nerve in my neck that sends stars bursting in my vision.She’s efficient. She’s good.
But she’s not Nadia.
And that means she’s notmyenemy. I trap her arm during the next strike, and slam her to the ground. My knee pins her down, and my elbow swings down like a hammer.
She goes limp beneath me. I rise slowly, chest heaving, blood dripping from my ribs. My blade is shaking in my hand, not from fear—but rage. Focus. Obsession.
Nadia.
Nadia with the guns strapped to her thighs and the perfume that smells like danger. Nadia, who once dragged a knife across my chest just to hear the sound I made when she cut me. She’dbe watching me right now with that cruel smirk, licking blood off her fingers like dessert.
