Page 69 of Broken By Silence
“You always look at me like you hate me,” he mutters.
“Because I do,” I reply, calm, coiled. I snap a punch across his jaw. He grunts, stepping back, surprise flickering in his eyes. “I hate you because of what you represent. Pain.Her pain.You. Your father. It all leads to her jumping from that cliff and into the waves.”Punch.“It leads to her heart stopping.”Punch.“It leads to her spending two years in therapy just to be able to talk again…To her, hurting in ways she shouldn’t have to. You made her world smaller, darker.”
His fists are sharp, precise. Mine are honed, trained, and lethal if necessary.
We collide, bare knuckles scraping, forearms slamming.
“You think hitting me will fix anything?” he snarls.
“Yes.”
I pivot, drive a clean strike into his ribs, follow with a precise elbow to his shoulder. He staggers but recovers. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh.
We circle each other, trading controlled blows—one testing the other, both probing for limits. There’s tension, but also a subtle rhythm forming, like a conversation through movement rather thanwords. Neither of us is trying to destroy the other. We’re clearing the air, setting boundaries with fists.
I duck under a wild swing, slide along the side of his body, and hammer a strike to his ribs that makes him grunt. He recovers, throws a right hook, and I slip, twisting, and snap a short jab into his shoulder. He flinches.
We trade a few more blows—each one calculated, efficient, measured—but not without force.
There’s a rhythm to it now, less fury, more dialogue in motion. I catch his right fist, redirect, and hit the side of his ribs. He catches me with a jab to the shoulder, and we both step back, breathing hard.
We pause for a heartbeat, studying each other, knuckles scraped, skin reddened, sweat dripping. The timer shrills again. Crew yells from the corner, but I barely hear it. Roman wipes at his mouth, catches his breath, and I offer my hand.
He stares, wary. Then, slowly, he takes it. Not a friend. Not quite, but the respect is there.
“I don’t like what you did,” I say quietly, “but I don’t hate you. Just don’t hurt her again.”
“I won’t,” he replies, voice low but steady. “I get it. And… thanks for not trying to kill me in the process.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I know that would hurt her, and that’s something I refuse to do.”
This feelsdifferent before it even starts.
The ropes creak again as Oscar climbs in. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even glance at the rest of us. His hands are already taped, fists flexing, shoulders rolled loose and ready.
Elijah steps through the ropes opposite him. I see the tension in his jaw. He knows what this is about.
Crew mutters from the sideline, “This is gonna be ugly.”
The timer shrills.
Oscar movesfirst.
No hesitation, no warning. A blur of fists. His jab cracks against Elijah’s chin before he even blinks. The second follows immediately, a hook slamming into his ribs. Elijah absorbs it, stepping back, blocking high, but Oscar’s already inside his guard.
Every strike says what he doesn’t sign.
You hurt her.
You don’t get to take what isn’t yours.
Elijah swings, sharp and calculated, but Oscar slips under it, ducks low, and punishes him with a brutal uppercut that snaps his head back. The sound echoes through the gym.
Elijah spits blood, then resets.
His stance narrows, eyes sharper now, but Oscar’s relentless. He doesn’t fight wild—he fights surgical. Every punch lands with intent, each one a wordless accusation. A left hook to the temple. A straight right to the ribs. A jab to the throat, just shy of crippling.
Mockery flickers in Oscar’s eyes. He doesn’t smile, but the way he drops his guard for a second, daring Elijah to hit him, is louder than any taunt. Elijah throws a heavy cross. Oscar slips it by inches, then plants his fist square in Elijah’s gut, folding him.
