Yep. I’m Dying.

Yep. I’m Dying.
Rafael

The gym was quieter than usual.

Not silent, Iron Den was never silent but the noise had changed. Fewer jokes, fewer shouts, the kind of hush that followed after you watched someone get humbled. Yesterday had been a massacre. His best guys, heavyweights who’d been training for years, dropped one after another by a five-foot-nothing woman with a smile sharp enough to cut skin.
He’d reviewed the footage twice. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Just control. It wasn’t brute force; it was precision, and precision came from pain learned the hard way.
The guys still nursing bruises called her the witch.
He didn’t correct them.
He was mid-wrap on his hands when the music cut off.
A heartbeat of static, then bass. Loud, cocky, way too catchy to belong in a fight gym.
Every head lifted.
Rafael blinked once, a slow grin creeping in.
Oh, hell no…

The door banged open and there she was.
Red. Not auburn or copper or subtle, fire-engine, come-at-me red. Hair twisted into twin buns that somehow looked dangerous, hoodie cropped to her ribs, smirk already loaded. The energy in the room shifted like someone had thrown gasoline on a lit fuse.
She strode across the mats, duffel swinging from her shoulder, eyes locking straight on him.
“Morning, Coach,” she called, voice bright over the music.

He pointed toward the ceiling speakers. “Did you hack my sound system?”

“Maybe,” she said, grin widening. “Had to play my intro song.”

The fighters nearest the ring were trying not to laugh. Rafael didn’t bother hiding his. “Of course you’ve got an intro song.”

“Duh.” She tossed her bag down, kicked off her sneakers. “Every good villain does.”

He leaned against the ropes, head tilting as he took her in. “Back to the red, huh?”

She looked up, the grin already spreading. “Yeah. Figured it was time to bring her back.”

“Her?”

Lola’s eyes sparkled. “You’ll find out soon enough. Pretty sure there’s something somewhere in that file you’ve got on me.” She sang the last words, lilting, taunting, “Gueeesss we’ll seeeee.”

The men around the ring exchanged glances—half impressed, half terrified.
Rafael just laughed under his breath. “Yeah,” he said, smile tugging wider. “I think we will.”
He nodded toward the center of the mat. “We’ll start light. Footwork, reaction speed.”

Lola cocked a hip, grin tugging at her mouth. “You easing me in or underestimating me again?”

His eyes flicked over her stance, steady and unbothered. “Not underestimating. Evaluating.”

She laughed under her breath. “Cute word for getting your ass handed to you.”

That earned a low whistle from someone near the ring. Rafael’s smirk deepened as he raised his hands. “Alright then, bruja. Let’s see if the legend’s real.”

“Oh, it’s real,” she said, sliding into motion, every line of her body coiled and dangerous. “Try to keep up.”

The bell wasn’t official, just a tap on the mat, but it set the rhythm anyway. Lola moved first. Quick. Measured. No wasted energy. Her steps were light, sure, predatory in a way most fighters only pretended to be.
Rafael circled her, testing distance, trying to find an opening that didn’t exist. The first feint came easy; the second didn’t. She read him, actually read him, pivoting before he’d even committed to the strike.
The room started to hum again, that low current that fills a gym when something special’s happening.
She wasn’t showboating this time. No trash talk. No taunting. Just that focused, razor-sharp calm that made his pulse pick up. Every dodge, every counter, was clean and deliberate.

Jesus, she’s fast.

He went for a sweep to test her reaction time. She jumped it, caught his wrist mid-motion, and used his own weight to twist him halfway off balance before letting go with a smirk.
“Light enough for you, Coach?” she asked, barely winded.

He barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Remind me never to spar before caffeine again.”

“Excuses already?” she teased, rolling her shoulders like she was just warming up.

The men around them started placing quiet bets, murmurs slipping into laughter as Rafael reset. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to push harder after that, ego maybe, or curiosity but he came at her again, and this time, she met him head-on.
The crack of impact echoed through the gym her block solid, her counter a blur.
Rafael grinned through the sting in his arm. “Alright, bruja,” he said, voice rough with amusement. “Now we’re talking.”

Lola’s smile turned feral. “Finally.”

Lola

Her lungs were on fire. Her legs? Betrayers. Her arms? About five seconds from staging a mutiny.
But she smiled.
Always smile. Always look like you’re the one having fun.

Rafael’s latest jab barely missed her jaw—she ducked, slipped inside his guard, and landed a soft punch to his ribs that was more message than hit. He grunted, and the sound gave her just enough satisfaction to keep moving.
Jesus, he's strong. Heavy. Solid in a way that says trained by violence, perfected by patience.

And she was very quickly running out of both oxygen and ego.
On the outside, she was all grin and glittering eyes. On the inside?
Everything hurts, Dottie. This is how you trained me to die, huh? Cool, cool, cool.

She spun out of range, caught her balance, and managed to throw him one of her lazy smiles. “That all you got, Coach?”

Rafael wiped a line of sweat from his temple, eyes sharp, amused. “You’re breathing hard.”

“I’m laughing on the inside.”

“I bet.”

They circled again. His movements were steady, deliberate. Controlled chaos. She admired that. He wasn’t trying to dominate her he was reading her, cataloging, learning.
Smart. Dangerous.
Exactly the kind of man Enzo wouldn’t want her near and also want to kill for looking at her too long.
The round ended with a mutual step back, no knockout, no winner, just respect in the ache of it. The guys watching were half cheering, half whispering holy shit under their breath.
Rafael offered her a hand; she took it, grip steady even though her arms felt like molten glass.
“Good form,” he said. “Clean hits. You’ve got control.”

“Compliments? Be still my heart,” she teased, swiping a towel over her face. “Don’t go soft on me, Coach.”

He laughed, low and easy. “Not a chance.” Then, more curious: “Where’d you learn that kind of precision?”

She caught the faint glint in his eye. Testing. Fishing.
“Baba,” she said simply. “Old witch with a mean right hook.”

He smirked. “Figures. She teach you to smile while getting hit too?”

“Among other things.” She leaned against the ropes, pretending to stretch. “Like how to hide it when you’re dying inside.”
That got her a look something between respect and curiosity but he didn’t push. Not yet.
Instead, he started peppering her with easy questions. Not about Enzo. Not about business. About her. Favorite weapon, favorite music to train to, whether she preferred knives or blunt force (“depends who I’m mad at”).
He listened, really listened, filing everything away with that too-calm stare.
When he finally paused to grab his water bottle, she spoke before she could stop herself.
“What do you know about the Academy?”

The question landed between them like a thrown knife; silent, sharp, deliberate.
Rafael froze for half a second. Just half. Then he smiled. “You’ve been busy.”

“I do my homework.”

“That’s more of a graduate-level topic.” He took a sip, casual like he wasn’t deflecting. “Maybe we save that lesson for another day.”

She tilted her head, pulse still hammering but grin cool. “So you do know something.”

“I know a lot of things,” he said simply, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I share them.”

Lola’s grin widened, even as her body screamed for mercy. “Challenge accepted.”

Rafael chuckled, shaking his head as he walked toward the office. “Stretch, witch. You earned it.”

She dropped to the mat, finally letting herself breathe, really breathe, as soon as his back was turned. Every muscle in her body twitched in protest.
Yep. Dying. Dead. Just a skeleton with good hair.

Still, she couldn’t help the small, fierce smile that crept up her face.
She’d come here to test him. But the truth?
He scared her a little—in the way only someone who recognized your kind of darkness could.
And that meant one thing.
He was worth keeping an eye on.

By the time the SUV rolled into the private garage beneath the hotel, her body was staging a full-scale revolt. Every muscle screamed. Her legs felt like overcooked noodles. Even blinking took effort.
She didn’t even wait for Thing 1 to open her door—just pulled her phone from her pocket and typed a single text:
911\. In the garage.

Then she tossed her head back against the seat and groaned.
God help me, I’m going to need to be rolled upstairs in a laundry cart.

The elevator doors slid open less than sixty seconds later.
Enzo appeared first—suit jacket half-buttoned, expression carved from panic—with half the crew fanning out behind him, guns already drawn.
He spotted her slumped in the backseat and froze.
“Lola?”

She lifted one hand weakly. “Hey, baby.”

The tension in his shoulders dropped a full inch. “You sent me 911.”

“Yeah,” she said solemnly. “Because it’s an emergency.”

His eyes swept over her like he was cataloging injuries. “What happened?”

“My legs,” she whispered, dead serious. “They’ve abandoned me.”

A strangled sound—half laugh, half exasperated sigh—escaped him as he holstered his weapon.
“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm, and yet, here I am injured and irresistible,” she said, smiling faintly. “Now, be useful. I require transport.”

The men exchanged looks. One of them coughed to hide a laugh. Enzo shot him a glare before opening her door.
“Transport,” he muttered, “right.”
He bent, sliding an arm under her knees and another behind her back. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Wait—” she started, but too late. He hauled her up and over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
“Enzo!” she yelped, pounding a fist weakly against his back. “You’re supposed to carry me like a princess, not a sack of potatoes!”

He started walking toward the elevator, completely unfazed. “You text me 911 like someone’s dying, you’re getting the potato package.”

Lola huffed, dangling upside down, her hair brushing the back of his legs. “It feels pretty serious to me! I don’t think I’m going to be able to move tomorrow.”

“That’s because you’re too competitive for your own good,” he shot back, grin audible in his voice.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I regret nothing.”

“Says the woman who can’t walk and is currently being hauled around like luggage,” he muttered, giving her thigh a light smack as the elevator doors slid shut. “Right. We’ll see about that.”

She snorted into his back, smiling despite herself. “Fair.”

He carried her all the way to the penthouse, muttering under his breath about little demons and false alarms, and she thought—not for the first time—that there wasn’t a safer place in the world than hanging over this man’s shoulder, laughing her way home.