Chapter Text
The ring’s still vibrating. Blood streaks the ropes, sweat hangs in the air, and the scent of cheap beer is thick enough to choke a corpse. The crowd’s in a frenzy, chanting, fists slamming against railings, kronos flying like it’s not blood money.
The man in the ring doesn’t move like a street brawler. He moves like a trained striker—tight footwork, controlled breathing, fists driving from the hip instead of the wrist. Every punch starts at the shoulder, power rolling through each rotation.
His combos aren’t pretty. They’re precise. He slips left and lands a right cross clean to the temple. The other guy drops like a sack of wet concrete, his head bouncing once on the mat. He won’t be getting up from that. Not for a while.
The crowd erupts before the bell finishes ringing.
I don’t just watch him move. I read what’s underneath. An old fracture along the collarbone, healed strong but crooked. Fifth and sixth ribs shadowed with stress lines from too many body shots and too fast a recovery. One knee pulls left when he shifts—ligament damage, probably recent.
I don’t see muscles. I see the skeleton beneath. The places it’s broken. The places it’ll break again.
I’ve seen enough. I push through the surge of bodies—elbow, shoulder, boot. Don’t stop moving. Never stop moving.
He jumps from the ring just as I reach him, dropping onto the stool like he can’t feel the blood trickling down his temple. He spits his mouthguard onto the concrete beside him. It lands with a slap, streaked in spit and red. He doesn’t even look at it. His knuckles are split open, raw meat and bone showing through. One hand flexes compulsively, adrenaline still burning through his system, every tendon vibrating like he’s not done yet.
There’s a wild edge to him. And fuck me, it shouldn’t be hot. But it is.
I glance at the mouthguard. “Hoping I’d pick that up for you?”
He grins, teeth streaked red. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Name?” I ask, crouching low in front of him as I snap on the gloves.
“Rafe,” he says.
Velera. I almost finish, but for once, I keep my mouth shut.
I knew his name before I ever took this job. He’s Reaper royalty—the kind who doesn’t just fight but commands. Everyone in District Nine answers to them, whether they admit it or not. Guns, drugs, contraband—whatever moves through the underground, the Reapers touch it first.
And Rafe Velera? He might not run the Reapers, but the man who does listens when he speaks.
Gods, Rafe’s big. Six-five, built like someone engineered him for combat. Buzzed hair. A scar slicing through one eyebrow that never healed right. Eyes like glacial water—blue, and too damn clear.
And that grin. The kind that’s seen too many fights and still believes it can win another.
Not that I care.
“Hold still.” My voice comes out flat. “You’ve got five minutes before the next idiot gets hauled out on a stretcher, and I don’t babysit.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to guess what I taste like.
“You’re not from around here,” he says.
“Not here for conversation.”
He grins. “You always this warm and fuzzy, or am I just lucky?”
I wipe the blood from his temple and thread a butterfly stitch, fast and clean. “Depends. You planning to pass out or piss yourself?”
He blinks, clearly amused. “Neither.”
I tape the edge down and keep my tone flat. “Then no, you’re not special. Just upright.”
There’s a tear at the index finger of my glove. Barely a slit. I don’t notice it until his blood touches my skin—hot, sharp, alive—and something in me reacts before I can shut it down.
His adrenaline’s high, not with panic but pleasure. No cortisol spike, no crash. He’s sober, clean, and wired like he gets off on the edge. Testosterone’s spiked, dopamine steady. High sex drive, high control. Alpha chemistry, but not messy. He’s built to dominate and disciplined enough not to rush it.
And his compatibility markers? Promising. Too promising. But I can’t read them completely. Not without more.
I’d need to taste him to be sure.
Okay. What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I just—
No. Not finishing that thought.
“You alright?”
My head snaps up.
He’s grinning. “You’re looking at me like you want to taste me. You can start wherever you want.”
Good fucking gods. This asshole. I mean, he’s not wrong—but still, fuck him.
“Don’t think so, pretty boy.”
I’m about to start the next stitch when some drunk bastard stumbles behind me. Beer sloshes down my back, cold and sticky.
I go still.
“Watch it,” I say, not turning.
He leans in from behind, breath hot and sour against my ear. “Didn’t mean to spill. Here, lemme help.”
His hand clamps on my ass, fingers digging in hard. He tugs the back of my shirt like he owns me. The cheap fabric tears.
A voice whistles from the side. “I’ll take sloppy seconds!”
My hand closes around my trauma shears.
I stand.
Turn.
And stab.
The blade slides clean through the bastard’s thigh, just beneath the muscle, a whisper shy of the femoral. He howls and drops like dead weight. Blood blooms fast.
“Hold pressure here,” I tell Rafe, pressing his hand to his brow. “I’ll be right back.”
I step over the writhing idiot and put my boot on his neck like it’s nothing. “You’re about to get a free ride, asshole. Congratulations.”
I reach into my med pack, yank out a Reaper-tag, and slap it to his forehead. The sensor flares red.
“And I want these back,” I mutter, leaning down and grabbing the shears. “They’re expensive.”
I rip the shears free, blood spraying.
He screams like it matters.
The bouncers start moving.
Then his head fucking explodes.
Something twists in my gut a second before it happens—muscle memory, but not mine. The kind of thing you only feel if you’ve stood too close to death for too long.
Blood mists across my face. Hot, sharp, arterial. I taste it and spit once, hard. It lingers, metal-rich and too warm.
Some part of me—some wrong part—wants to raise it.
To raise him.
I straighten and turn.
Rafe stands beside me, temple still bleeding, hand steady around the pistol. The shot was suppressed; the weapon’s matte black finish is clean and utilitarian, with no serial number. At least, not one I can see.
I recognize it instantly—an Atropos, a military-grade sidearm discontinued after the ceasefire. Designed for silent, precision kills, it’s the kind of weapon you only find on the black market now. None of that surprises me. He’s a Reaper, after all.
What does surprise me is that he fired at close range, in a crowded room, without a hint of panic or hesitation. No wasted motion, no second-guessing. He isn’t reckless; he’s deliberate. And that kind of confidence never comes cheap.
“I had it handled,” I say flatly.
He shrugs, too casual. “I don’t like men who think they can take what doesn’t belong to them.”
He lowers the gun with the same ease he pulled it, like it never weighed anything. “You know what those red tags mean, Blades?”
I don’t. Not completely.
“Means I put ’em down later,” he says. “I just didn’t feel like waiting for the later part.”
The bouncers drag what’s left of the corpse off, leaving a streak of blood on the floor.
Rafe drops back onto the stool like nothing happened. I stand in front of him, my shirt still tacky with spilled beer.
He’s looking at me differently now, like I’m not just something interesting. He looks at me like I’m a problem he wants to solve with his teeth.
The pistol rests loosely in his hand, the barrel angled away as I reach for the next suture.
“You always that good with your hands?” he asks.
I don’t look up. “Only when I want something.”
He grins. “Good thing I’ve got plenty worth wanting.”
I wipe blood from his temple.
“That depends. You planning on saying something dumber than that?”
“Give me a minute.” His voice is a low drawl. “I’m bleeding, not dead.”
I finish the stitch slower than I need to.
“Shame.”
He laughs under his breath, but there’s heat in it. Something feral around the edges.
“You a combat medic?”
“Something like that.”
“Where’d you train?”
“Nowhere I talk about.”
I check his pulse. It’s strong and steady, and there’s no reason for my fingers to linger on his neck, but I let them. I like the feel of it—the steady rhythm of his blood beneath my touch. His pupils follow me when I move, responsive and focused. They’re slightly dilated, probably unrelated to the hit. His speech is clear, no slur or delay. No concussion then, just adrenaline.
When I pull away, he’s still watching me, as if he’s wondering what else I’d do with a blade in my hand.
“You’re done,” I say. “Don’t get hit in the head again.”
A voice calls out from somewhere nearby.
“Smile, Reaper boy!”
A click—then a soft whirr as someone snaps a Polaroid.
Rafe doesn’t even blink. He just leans back, grinning like he owns the place.
I don’t.
Before the photo fully ejects, I’m moving, snatching it clean from the camera with a gloved hand.
“Hey—” the guy holding the camera starts, confused. I ignore him.
My gloved finger smears Rafe’s blood on the corner. The photo’s still developing into a haze of bruises, blood, and me standing in front of Rafe.
I slide it into my pack.
“No photos,” I say, cold and final.
Rafe arches a brow. He’s curious, but he doesn’t push it.
I start to turn.
“You got a name, Blades?”
“Nope.”
Then I vanish into the crowd.
When you’re running, names are something you don’t give. Not to anyone. Not even if you like them.
And I’m just another ghost in Sonora.