Page 4 of Ghosted

Almost.

Then a flash cuts across my vision.

White and sharp.

For half a second, the whole warehouse looks blown out, like someone overexposed the night.

My focus snaps toward the edge of the crowd before I can stop it, irritation prickling hot at the back of my neck.

A camera.

That’s all I catch at first.

A black strap loops around pale fingers. A lens points straight through the cage.

Not at the other guy or the crowd losing its fucking mind.

At me.

Then the bodies shift, and whoever’s holding it disappears again.

My jaw tightens.

The guy uses the distraction to swing.

Stupid.

I turn back just as his fist cuts past my face, close enough for me to feel the air move. The irritation in my chest goes sharp, then cold.

The next hit I land is meaner than it needs to be.

A clean shot to the ribs folds him forward with a strangled sound. His knees buckle. I grab the back of his neck and drive my knee up once, then again, each impact dull and heavy beneath the roar of the crowd.

The ref steps closer.

I let the guy drop before he can touch me again.

The bell rings.

Fight over.

The warehouse explodes.

For a second, I stand in the middle of the cage with blood on my mouth, sweat cooling under my shirt, and the crowd screaming like I’m something worth worshipping.

The ref grabs my wrist and lifts my arm.

Money moves.

Someone throws a drink.

Some drunk idiot tries climbing the cage before security drags him back down.

Usually, this is the good part.

The quiet after.

The drop.