Page 85 of Her Unending Horizon

Tyler’s legs gave out.

He didn’t crumple gracefully. He went down like somebody had unplugged him—straight to the concrete under that thin layer of canvas. He hit hard enough that I felt it in my teeth.

The crowd lost their minds. People surged to their feet. Cash waved, phones lit up, the air full of shouts and laughter and curses in equal measure.

The ref did a cursory check, waved it off. End of fight. Kobi’s hand was raised to mild applause.

Tyler lay there blinking, chest pumping in uneven bursts.

Then he tried to roll and failed.

“Get him out of there!” someone shouted, annoyed, not concerned.

Two big guys in black shirts and earpieces appeared at the cage door like they’d been waiting in the wings. They hauled Tyler up under the armpits, his feet dragging, head lolling.

His mouth opened. I couldn’t hear him from where I was, but I saw it—the sluggish shape of the words.

Em. Sorry. Missed.

My heart stuttered. He was talking about the ultrasound.

It hurt. I looked away. Then I looked back.

They dragged him down the metal steps, toward the side corridor.

I stepped out of the shadows.

“Let me see him,” I said, moving to intercept.

Maurice materialized between us, hands out, palms casual. He wasn’t alone this time. The two door guys flanked him, bigger in here than they’d looked outside, muscles stacked under sleeves, eyes flat.

“Post,” Maurice said, smiling. “Enjoying the show?”

“He needs a hospital,” I snapped, ignoring the question. “Now. That was a bad knockout. He could have a brain bleed. He’s close to vomiting, he’s⁠—”

As if on cue, Tyler’s body heaved. Vomit hit the concrete in a wet splash, barely missing one of the security guys’ boots. Tyler moaned, tried to wipe his mouth, missed.

Maurice’s smile didn’t move. “He knew the risks when he signed the waiver,” he said. “We have our own people. He’ll be taken care of.”

“Your own people?” I barked. “Where? You don’t have any medical staff here. You don’t even have a damn ice pack. Let me look at him. I’m not asking to take him home, I’m asking to keep him from dying in your hallway.”

The two security guys stepped forward, closing off the narrow space between me and Tyler’s limp form.

Maurice’s eyes cooled. “I said,” he repeated, “we have our own people. He’ll be taken care of.”

He turned his head slightly. “Get him out of here,” he told the men holding Tyler.

“Yes, sir.”

They dragged Tyler past me, out of the main hall, toward a darker portion of the building—a door I hadn’t noticed before, half-hidden behind stacked crates and an old industrial sign.

His mouth worked around sluggish words as they dragged him past me. I had to lean in to catch them.

“Em… sorry… missed… the ultrasound…”

The door opened. Swallowed him. Shut.

I was left staring at peeling paint and a metal handle.