Page 6 of Undisputed Chaos
Someone who looked at me and saw more than a pretty face or a boring girl. Someone whose hands were rough from living, whose tattoos told stories I wanted to hear in the dark.
My cheeks felt warm, and I laughed at myself, shaking off the fantasy.
I was just a girl with a soft heart and a secret curiosity, scrolling through thirst traps and wondering what it would be like to have someone love all of me—the good, the bad, and the hungry.
PROLOGUE TWO
Adrian
Blood always looked best under stadium lights.
I grinned as I watched it drip from my opponent’s nose, a perfect, glistening line trailing down his chin and splattering onto the mat.
The crowd was a living, breathing animal, hungry and pulsing, roaring every time I landed a punch.
I didn’t come here for them, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the sound. It was almost as good as the hunt.
I bounced on my heels, cropped tank clinging to the sweat and blood painting my muscles. My knuckles ached, but I savored it.
I savored the ache, the sting, the way my tattoos flexed and rippled over bruises with every movement.
The other guy, some local favorite, undefeated until tonight, staggered back, blinking through the mess I’d made of his face.
He was big, but not big enough. Not mean enough. Not hungry enough.
I winked at him, flashing a mouthguard-stained grin. “C’mon, pretty boy. Give me your best shot.”
I wanted him angry. I wanted him wild. I wanted him to forget his footwork and his coach’s voice and just swing wildly, like prey does when it realizes it’s trapped.
He did. A wild right hook, noticed from a mile away.
I ducked, slipped inside, and drove my fist into his ribs so hard I felt something crack. He made a noise like a kicked animal, and the crowd howled.
I laughed—couldn’t help it. There was nothing like this. Not hacking a firewall, not watching someone beg for mercy, not even the rush of a new tattoo needle biting into skin.
This was pure and honest. Just two animals in a cage, though only one of us was truly wild.
I circled him, loose and lazy, letting the crowd’s chants fade into white noise. My mind wandered, as it always did when I got bored.
I thought about the new blade waiting for me at home with a steel, acid-etched handle carved to fit my palm just so. I thought about the piranhas in my tank, probably hungry by now.
I thought about how easy it was to break a man, how much fun it was to see what shape he took when he finally snapped.
The ref shouted something, but I ignored him. I was here for the art. For the mess.
For the moment when my opponent realized he was trapped in here with me, not the other way around.
He swung again, desperately. I let him hit me, just for fun. The punch rattled my jaw, copper blooming deliciously across my tongue.
I grinned wider, spat the blood onto the mat, and wiped my mouth with the back of my glove.
“Nice,” I drawled. “You got anything else?”
He didn’t. I finished it in the following exchange—a flurry of hooks, a knee to the gut, and an uppercut that sent him sprawling. The crowd roared.
My vision tunneled as the ref stepped in, waving his arms,shouting my name. Adrian the “Catalyst,” that’s all. The problem. The animal. The predator.
I let them lift my arm, let the lights blind me, let the noise crash over me like a wave. I was alone in the ring, sweat and blood painting my skin, my heart hammering out a rhythm only I could hear.
