Page 87 of Her Unending Horizon

I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the screaming protest from my ribs. I could feel Chloe in the back of my mind—her hands on me, her voice telling me this didn’t fix anything. Her tears. Her turning away.

You chose this, I reminded myself. You said yes. Now do the damn job.

The whistle blew.

Cole came in measured. No wild rush, no showing off. Just crisp jabs, testing distance. His defense was tight. I answered with my own, keeping my guard high, footwork light. First round was mostly feeling each other out—little shots, leg kicks, checking each other’s reactions.

He caught me with a stiff jab that snapped my head back. I landed a solid low kick that made him adjust his stance.

We were both experienced enough to respect the other quickly.

Second round, he turned the heat up. Started feinting more, drawing my reactions, slipping in and attacking my body every time I overcommitted. The first time he dug a hook into my left side, I saw white. The ribs I’d been babying lit up like someone had set them on fire.

I grunted, clinched, forced a reset.

“Tender, huh?” he muttered under his breath as we broke.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I wheezed back.

He grinned, a quick flash.

I changed up my approach, tried to use my reach—picking at him with jabs, mixing in leg kicks, making him come to me. It worked some. I landed a couple of good combinations, felt knuckles connect with his jaw, his body. But every time I forgot myself and twisted too hard, pain stole half my gas.

By the end of the second, we were both marked, him with a cut at his eyebrow, me with a bruise blooming across my cheekbone and a ribcage that felt like someone had gone at it with a baseball bat.

Third round was pure grind.

We knew there wasn’t a knockout coming unless one of us made a stupid mistake, and neither of us was in the mood to oblige. So, it became a war of attrition. He pushed the pace, I circled. I pushed, he angled away. We traded combinations, clinched, broke, repeated.

The crowd loved it.

Every clean shot got a shout. Every near-takedown made the people with money riding on it suck in a collective breath. I could practically feel the women at the bar watching as intently as the men, all of them hungry for something.

When the whistle finally shrieked to end the third, my lungs burned, my hands ached, and sweat stung my eyes.

Cole and I stood in the center as the ref grabbed our wrists, one in each hand.

There was no official judge’s table, no scorecards. This wasn’t a sanctioned bout. It was vibes and money.

The ref looked at Maurice. Maurice looked at the crowd.

The noise was…mixed. Some shouted for Cole, some for me. It wasn’t an obvious skew either way.

Maurice’s lips thinned.

The ref lifted both our arms.

A draw.

It felt…right. Unsatisfying, but honest.

Cole exhaled, then grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “Not bad, Zarek,” he said.

“Same,” I said, breathing hard.

We shuffled out of the cage, each heading in opposite directions. Cole disappeared into the darker part of the building where they’d taken Tyler and JJ.

I didn’t.