Page 86 of Her Unending Horizon

“Post.” Maurice’s voice snapped my attention back. He stepped closer, invading my space just enough to make a point. “You here to work as some kind of social worker? Nanny? Or are you here to fight and earn some money?”

My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides. My ribs throbbed. My conscience screamed.

“I’m here to do what I said I’d do,” I bit out. “Fight. But my entire career revolves around saving people. That’s not a switch I can flip off.”

“Then you’d better learn,” he said softly. “Because around here, you keep your head down and focus on your own business. You want to babysit, go back to the firehouse.”

We stared at each other for a long beat.

Then he smiled again, all fake warmth. “You’re up after this next one,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He strode away, back toward the cage, already shedding the conversation like the snake he was.

I stood there for a second, breathing hard, the echo of Tyler’s mumbling stuck in my head.

Em. Ultrasound. Sorry.

The crowd noise spiked again as Maurice climbed back into the cage.

“For our second bout of the evening,” he announced, “we’ve got a familiar face—young gun, local talent. He’s been making waves in the regionals. Give it up for JJ Baumgartner.”

JJ.

The kid from Cappy’s gym.

It just got worse and worse.

He looked even younger under the harsh lights, stepping into the cage in black shorts with white stripes, jaw set. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been cracking my ribs with a body shot and apologizing afterward. Now he had his game face on.

“And in the opposite corner,” Maurice boomed, “a veteran of the underground circuit. You might have seen him in Atlanta, you might have seen him in Nashville. Tonight, he’s here to test our boy. Put your hands together for Razor.”

Razor was older—maybe late thirties—with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck and down both arms. Not pretty ones, either. Prison ink, done in bad light with worse equipment. He rolled his shoulders as he stepped in, all casual menace.

The three rounds that followed were a blur of skill and stubbornness.

JJ had speed and heart. Razor had experience and a willingness to fight dirty without technically breaking the rules. He worked JJ’s body with short, punishing shots, swept his legs when he could, ground his forearm into JJ’s face in the clinch.

Every time JJ got clipped, he reset his stance, shook it off, and came back. By the third round, his left eye was swelling, his breathing ragged, but he refused to back down.

He caught Razor with a flying knee that staggered the older man. The crowd screamed. Razor tried to clinch, JJ shoved him off and swarmed, combinations flowing. A right-left-right slipped past Razor’s guard and snapped his head. The ref jumped in a half second before Razor hit the floor.

The place erupted. Money changed hands, fast and furious, some with bills, some with phones. JJ stumbled back to his corner, arms limp, chest heaving. Nobody climbed in to check him. No one seemed to care about anything but the betting results.

I took a step toward the cage, wanting to catch JJ’s eye, to at least tell him to put ice on his damn head and not sleep alone tonight.

Maurice’s voice cut through again. “Post,” he called over his shoulder, not even turning. “Move your ass. You’re up.”

I swallowed whatever I’d been about to yell and headed for the door in the chain-link.

The ref rattled off the same tired rules as we met in the center. My opponent was already there, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Bigger than me. Not by much in height, but heavier across the shoulders and chest. Late thirties, maybe forty. Short dark hair, nose that had been broken at least twice, eyes like chips of stone. No tats that I could see, but the way he carried himself screamed experience.

“Name’s Cole,” he said quietly as we met in the center.

“Zarek,” I answered.

He nodded once, like he’d filed that away, then slid back to his corner.