The roar of the crowd was deafening, but my mind was silent.
The girls were worried. I could feel it in the way Sienna clung to my arm, her fingers digging into my sleeve. In the way Camille's usual smirk was absent, her lips pressed into a thin line. In the way Alexis, normally so clinical, so methodical, had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her nails biting into her palms.
"Kane is brutal," Sienna whispered. "Rey, please be careful."
Camille swallowed hard, her eyes darting between me and the pit. "Stryker was a veteran. A monster in his own right. Kane crushed him like an insect. He—" she stopped, unable to say it.
Alexis inhaled sharply. "He killed him."
I closed my eyes for a moment. I had seen it. Kane's ruthless efficiency. The way he dismantled Stryker, piece by piece, without hesitation or remorse. The blood, the broken body, discarded like garbage.
A sigh escaped my lips. My girls—my team—were right to worry. But I wasn't. I wasn't afraid.
I was angry.
Not at Kane, specifically. Not at Ragnar, either. No, it was the sheer arrogance. The unchecked brutality. The way these men fought without care, without thought for the consequences.
When Ragnar threw Vera's body at us, something inside me snapped.
That could have hit Sienna. Camille. Alexis.
It could have hit the operations team working behind me.
These men didn't care. They fought like they owned the world. Like they were untouchable.
I was going to remind them they weren't.
They thought strength alone made them untouchable, but they had forgotten one thing—monsters can be outmaneuvered.
As I stepped toward the pit, my operations team stood waiting for me. The men and women who had been working tirelessly behind the scenes, making sure everything ran smoothly. My people.
One of them, a stocky engineer with oil-stained hands, clapped me on the shoulder. "Give him hell, boss."
"You've got this," another grinned, his hands seeming to shake from either excitement or dread. "That freak doesn't stand a chance."
Milan, always the strategist, hesitated. "Reynard, listen, Kane—"
Anthony's hand shot out, stopping him mid-sentence. "No need," he murmured. His sharp eyes studied me, narrowing slightly.
As if he saw something.
Something more primal.
I smiled. "I'll be back soon."
I stepped into the pit, and the world sharpened.
Everything was clear. Too clear. My detective instincts worked in harmony with every job I had mastered. I could feel the slightest tremors in the air. The way the dust shifted under Kane's weight. The micro-expressions on his face, the way his stance adjusted ever so slightly.
My body thrummed with energy. Strength from my construction work. Stamina from firefighting. The precision of an astronaut. The conditioning of a boxer.
Every word spoken around me was amplified by my lawyer job, as if I could predict what would come next.
Everything was at play.
Kane cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. His body, a mountain of corded muscle and tattoos, was primed for destruction. His eyes gleamed with savage delight.
"Don't disappoint me," he growled.
I didn't respond.
"Quarterfinal match! Kane "The Bull" Morrow versus Mr. Beetle"
The buzzer sounded.
He charged.
Fast. A blur of muscle and power.
Death Charge.
I stepped to the side, the attack missing me by inches. Kane's momentum carried him forward, his foot digging into the dirt as he pivoted—
Only for my fist to sink into his ribs.
The impact sent a shockwave through his body, forcing a grunt from his throat. He staggered, but his endurance was monstrous. A lesser man would have crumpled. He did not.
A gleam of excitement flashed in his eyes.
He came again. Faster this time. Fists flying, a relentless assault. Punches, elbows, knees—each blow a calculated attempt to overwhelm me.
I didn't let him.
I weaved through his attacks effortlessly, my feet light, my body fluid. Dodging, sidestepping, tilting my head just enough that his strikes passed harmlessly by.
A right hook aimed for my temple. I leaned back.
A crushing grip reached for my arm. I twisted away.
A knee strike to my gut. I caught it, flicking him backward like a toy.
Kane landed hard, breathing heavily. His nostrils flared.
He was beginning to realize.
We weren't fighting on the same level.
The fight dragged on, but I controlled every second of it. Kane's strength was terrifying. His endurance, monstrous. He was getting faster, adapting, closing the gap between us.
But it wasn't enough.
I ignored his words. His taunts. They meant nothing. His fists were his real language, and I understood them better than he did.
Every move he made informed my next action. His footwork, his breathing, the way his muscles tensed before a strike. He was fighting with instinct.
I was fighting with absolute control.
He lunged. A wild uppercut meant to break my jaw.
I caught his wrist mid-motion.
His eyes widened in shock—
Before my knee drove into his gut.
The air exploded from his lungs, his body curling inward. I let go, allowing him to stumble back.
It was time to end this.
I moved.
Faster than before. Faster than him.
Kane barely had time to react before my fist buried itself in his ribs once more. A hook to the temple. A jab to the jaw. A brutal shot to the liver.
He was reeling.
And then—
I ended it.
A hook. Precise. Devastating.
The moment it connected, the sound echoed like a gunshot.
Kane's body stiffened. His eyes rolled back. And then, like a puppet with cut strings, he collapsed.
Silence. Deafening silence.
Then—
"MR. BEETLE WINS!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers, shouts, cries of disbelief. I barely heard them. My gaze had already shifted.
To Ragnar.
He was watching me, lips curled into a smirk. The same arrogant amusement in his eyes.
I stepped toward the edge of the pit, lifting my chin slightly. My voice was steady. Unshaken.
"You better entertain me in the finals."
Ragnar's smirk widened.
And then, he laughed.