April 14, 2021. 16:30. Vancouver.
"WHAT THE HELL—" Dreadlocks finally responds.
"Ohhhh…" Buzz-cut groans on the floor and rolls to his side, body twitching. I reach down, hook my fingers into the back of his head and jerk it back. His skull slams into the floor again, every last bit of force following through.
I expect him to go limp. But he doesn't.
At the last second, Buzz-cut twists, brings his forearm up and catches my wrist—more reflex than fight. My blow clips the side of his face instead of finishing him. Pain blossoms along his cheek; blood beads at the corner of his mouth.
He hisses, still breathing, still very much fighting. He claws at the floor and, with a grunt, pushes a knee under himself to start getting up.
Just as I'm about to finish him off, I glance back. Dreadlocks is already in front of me. Oh—
Like a freight train, Dreadlocks barrels into me; his shoulder slams into my ribs and launches me toward the wall. I twist, trying to brace, but not fast enough—pain spikes up my side.
I cough and taste metal.
"FUCK YOU—CHOOMBAIT BITCH!" he roars.
He did NOT just call me that. Heat flares behind my eyes; my lips curl, and a single, hateful growl escapes.
With a sudden burst, the bastard charges in, snatching my arm and trying to drive a knee into my gut.
But I pivot, rolling my hip so the knee bites less; the shock still stings, but I use his momentum to hook my arm around his leg and wrench. It hurts, but I come back with a stinging elbow to his ribs—enough to make him grunt.
Pinned for a heartbeat, I grind my teeth and snap a low kick, aiming for the soft spot where the groin meets his thigh.
A howl tears from his throat as he releases me.
Exhaling in a long, hot gasp, I lunge while he's still reeling, circling to get behind him and lock my arms around his neck—but Buzz-cut answers the bell again.
He's wobbly, one eye already swollen shut. He shoves himself up, fists loose.
Two on one. My eyes flick between them.
I rush Buzz-cut, timing my approach to catch him before he finds his balance. He swings a wild right; I slip it, step inside the arc, and plant a short, solid jab into his jaw. My left snaps a quick hook into his ribs to break his stance, then a knee drops into his midsection to wind him. He stumbles back, breath coming in ragged pulls.
My hands close on his shoulders as I move to clinch; he shoves with a shoulder and an elbow jabs into my side. My grip slips, but I yank anyway, teeth bared—if I don't keep pressing, he won't stay down.
Dreadlocks comes at me again, fists swinging, trying to bulldoze me backward while Buzz-cut recovers.
Every hit, every movement, I'm forced to divide my attention—block, pivot, duck.
A strike aimed for my jaw barely misses as I slip under and counter with a quick jab to his ribs, but it barely slows him.
Buzz-cut joins back in, lashing out, forcing me to weave aside. I catch his arm and shove him away, only for Dreadlocks to charge again, all rage and momentum. I sidestep and drop low, sweeping my leg out. His weight does the rest—he crashes hard, air leaves his lungs in one ugly grunt.
No time to breathe. Buzz-cut's already in my face, throwing a fast right.
He throws a flurry of punches; I get my forearm up just in time. The hits rattle through bone and muscle—most I block, some I don't.
Pain blooms across my ribs and gut as I grit my teeth and take it. Urk—
The dull thud of fists on flesh mixes with my ragged breath.
Every blow pisses me off more than it hurts.
Just drop already. Fury burns hot in my chest.
But he doesn't. He keeps swinging—sloppy but relentless.
I slip around him, ducking low and angling past his guard, then latch onto his back in one smooth motion. My fingers find his throat; my grip goes hard and unforgiving. He fights the hold, neck muscles straining, breath coming harsh and ragged.
For a moment the urge to draw my gun flashes, tempting me to just off Buzz-cut. But I deny myself—pulling the trigger would ruin everything.
Wheezes and grunts slip out; his breathing is ragged. In a last-ditch move he steps back—then explodes toward the wall.
No mistake this time.
Letting go at the last second, I shove free; his own momentum does the rest. He rebounds into the plaster while I roll clear.
With my jaw clenched against the ache and adrenaline hammering in my ear, I surge forward.
He leans there, groaning and unsteady.
My knee drives into his gut; he coughs and folds. Another snaps up into his face—hard. I keep hitting—short, stinging blows—until one last strike drops him flat.
Momentary relief washes over—but it's cut short.
Dreadlocks comes charging back, fury in every step. The doorway becomes a gauntlet for a beat; then he veers, shouting at the top of his lungs, "You think you can get away? More of us—"
And with that, I win—him shouting was all I needed.
A jab to the ribs, a hook to the jaw—then a low sweep and an elbow in one motion. Each strike chips him down until he's wobbling within seconds.
His vision swims. "Ugh—" he staggers, hands up, dizzy.
"Yeah? And I don't care, dickhead," I snap, driving my foot into his shin—he pitches forward, teetering.
An elbow into the temple; his head jerks and his eyes roll. I grab his hair and slam his skull onto the floor. A long groan leaks out—enough to tell me he's fading.
I half-haul him upright—and slam his head down again.
This time, he goes limp. Finally.
I exhale and rub my aching stomach. Shit—no time to waste.
A camera above blinks red, indifferent. I shake off the fatigue and push forward; my boots click a fast rhythm on the polished tiles.
My hand disappears into my jacket; fingers find the key fob again, yanking it free. I press it to the sleek black sensor on the VIP door. A beep later, and the lock gives, doors sliding, and I slip inside.
The doors whisper shut behind me, and a wall of luxury hits. Damn. Everything here screams excess: gold-trimmed furniture, lacquered surfaces, and floor-to-ceiling windows that throw the city back at you in hard light.
I move around the room with quick eyes. Framed photos line the walls—AXIS everywhere. Red carpet smiles, stacks of cash flashed at cameras, the whole curated asshole aesthetic. I skirt the paintings toward the center.
A long glass table runs through the room, littered with watches, rings, and necklaces like someone treats jewelry as loose change. Everything here screams rich asshole. I pocket a couple of pieces—why not.
A massive wall screen catches my reflection: baggy black, hood up, almost invisible. I step past the table and into the kitchen.
On the countertops, a couple of pistols catch the recessed light and wink back at me. Dai Lung Streetmaster. Militech Arms Avenger. Arasaka WSA. BudgetArms Auto 3. Federated Arms X-9. I let my eyes drift over the cold metal—sleek, familiar—and feel the tug of want.
Too bad none of them are cared for like they should be.
I shrug, brushing past the neglected guns and scattered bling that glitter across the counter and couches. The real prize waits where I figured it would—on the kitchen table. Keys. Fob. Jackpot. A smirk tugs at my lips as I pocket them. Come to momma.
No time to linger. I cut for the elevator, jabbing the call button with jittery fingers. My foot taps out a restless beat on the tile; my palms rub together, slick with adrenaline and ache.
The elevator sighs open. I slip in and hit VIP Parking. My heart syncs with the low hum as it drops floor by floor. Almost there. Come on.
Finally—after too much pain and one too many close calls—the doors slide open to a cold, dimly lit garage that reeks of oil and old money. The air is still, heavy. But somewhere in that stillness waits what I came for. There it is. I can't help the smile that breaks across my face.
A sleek black Porsche 911 GT3, blood-red racing stripes slashing across its hood and sides like fresh wounds.
"Holy shit," I whisper, biting back a laugh. The car practically purrs even while standing still. I circle it once, grinning.
I pull the keys from my pocket. One flick of my wrist, and the headlights flare—bright, perfect. Hellooo, beautiful.
The echo fades, and I slide into the driver's seat, leather wrapping around me like it was moulded to my frame. The dashboard glows in a clean, high-tech shimmer; the wheel settles into my grip as if it's known me for years.
I take one breath—just one—to savour it, flicking the ignition as I exhale. This is mine now.
Its engine comes alive with a low, throaty snarl that builds into a full-bodied roar—smooth, vicious, and hungry, like a beast stretching after a long sleep. The sound fills the garage, bouncing off the concrete walls until it's all I can hear. A hum of satisfaction slips out as the vibration thrums through my bones. I tighten my grip, eyes burning with adrenaline. Then I floor it—tires scream, and I'm on the street in a blur.
My truck flickers into view. One tap on the app, and the beast growls awake, sliding in beside the Porsche. I laugh as the building shrinks behind me.
Time to disappear.