So, How’d I Do?

So, How’d I Do?
Lola

The hotel smelled like lemon soap and recycled air, the kind of clean that money buys when it wants to hide fingerprints. Lola crossed the lobby like she belonged there, gym bag on one shoulder, heartbeat steady enough to lie.
She’d texted Jake on the way up, a single line: Need a favor. Quiet.

He’d replied with an access code to the sublevel he used as his cave.

Jake’s tech den was cold and humming. Screens washed the walls in blue light, lines of code scrolling like rainfall. He didn’t look surprised when she slipped inside, just gestured with his coffee mug like that counted as hello.
“I need you to look into a name,” she said, voice low. “Lucian Rinaldi. Don’t flag it. Don’t mention it. Especially not to Enzo.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “You don’t usually come to me for ghosts.”

“I don’t usually have one,” she said. “I just want to know if it’s real before I decide how to feel about it.”

Because if I’m wrong, I’m paranoid. If I’m right, I’m hunted.

He set his mug down. “How deep?”

“Quiet deep,” she said. “If someone’s scrubbed it, I don’t want to be the reason it gets noticed again.”

Jake started typing, eyes flicking between screens. “All right. You’ll owe me something.”

“Put it on my tab.”

The keys clacked for a while. Data flickered, ran, erased itself. His face shifted from bored to intent, and then to something she didn’t like—focus sharpened by caution.
“You remember this name from where?” he asked, not looking up.

“When I was nine,” she said. “Before I ran. It’s the one piece of that day I can’t see clearly. Everything else plays like film—every voice, every smell. But not that one. It’s like someone fogged the reel.”

He nodded slowly. “Trauma does that.”

“Yeah,” she said, jaw tight. “So does being rewritten.”

Jake didn’t comment. His fingers kept moving. The room filled with quiet, the kind that builds when a secret gets too close to being born.
After a few seconds he said, “Digital footprint’s sterile. Too sterile. Either the man doesn’t exist or someone paid to make it look that way.”

“Which means he exists,” she said.

Jake nodded once. “I’ll keep digging. Carefully. You’ll know first if something moves.”

She exhaled through her nose, nodding. “Thanks, Jake.”

He gave her a small look, the kind that asked ten questions without words and went back to typing.
She stepped out into the hallway, the soundproof door closing soft behind her. The air out here was heavier. Her phone buzzed in her hand: Enzo.

Wear something comfortable. I’ll be late. Don’t forget I love you.

She smiled. He had a way of making even plain words feel like gravity; steady, quiet, and warm in a way she never quite got used to.

Comfortable. Sure. That means no cloths.

She hit the elevator button and waited. The lobby below her was a blurred collage of sound and light, the faint music of money pretending not to care.
The elevator doors slid open with a pleasant chime. She stepped inside, hit the penthouse floor, and leaned back against the mirrored wall. The car began its smooth climb.
Halfway up, it jolted.
Not the kind of shake you get from weight or misalignment, this was a pulse. A manufactured stutter. The panel lights flickered. A hiss filled the small box something releasing. Her stomach went still.
No way this is maintenance.
The elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors didn’t open. A heartbeat later, something on the outside did a click, then a punch of sound so low she felt it in her ribs. The metal screamed as the emergency lock was forced.
She shifted weight, ready stance, hand finding the small utility blade she kept clipped inside her gym bag. The doors parted an inch—then three—then someone’s gloved fingers wrenched them wide.
No sound, no words just the rush of bodies in black.

Breathe. Count backward from trouble. Keep what’s yours.

The van exhaled and went still. Hood on, zip ties biting, Lola felt bodies settle around her, boots widening, a strap snugged, a radio clicked to whisper. No pep talk. Real men save air for work.

Light knifed in as the rear doors cracked. Warm warehouse air slid over her: rubber, dust, cleaner trying to make danger smell polite. A glove found her elbow; another thumbed the hood up just to her mouth for a mercy breath. In that sliver she clocked a square jaw, a gold watch, posture that said I am practiced at being obeyed.
Cologne—expensive, deliberate. She didn’t have to see the face.

Hi, Gino. Boogie bitch.

Hands guided her to the lip. A voice at her ear tried menace and landed on middle management. “Hands. Quiet.”
She nodded like a saint, angled like a problem, and inventoried what mattered. Six, maybe eight on the grab, close-work bodies. The rest lay deeper, staged, bored, dangerous. Good. Tests should have teeth.

On the nearest chest rig: a fat black industrial marker, Velcroed horizontal, tip taped shut. Warehouse gear. Inventory lifeline. Her mouth went bright with a ridiculous, private joy.

There’s my pen.

The shove came; hip, shoulder, knee. In that half-stumble she stole it: two fingers under elastic, twist, mine. She tore the tape with her teeth, spat glue, and palmed the marker low like a knife no one respects until it ruins their night.
The grip on her arm tightened. “Don’t—”

She turned the warning into a wristlock. The man hit the van wall with a sound like overdue rent. The cap popped free, ticked into the van’s ribs, and was gone from the world of concerns.
The tip kissed skin.
A single, clean black line straight across his throat.
One.

He gagged, mostly insult. Another reached. She shaved his grab by an inch, hammered his elbow on steel, buried a knee in his thigh to kill the step. The marker slid the verdict across his windpipe black, obvious, unforgivable.
Two.

A headlock from behind, training-wheels move. She ducked under, stole his lapel, bounced his face off the door frame. A line across his throat made him sit inside his body in a stunned, quiet way.
Three.

No gloating. No monologue. Just work: fast, exact, unromantic and maybe a little internal singing.

I'm gonna swing
From the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live
Like tomorrow doesn't exist, like it doesn't exist
I'm gonna fly
Like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I'm gonna swing
From the chandelier, from the chandelier

A knife flashed. She took the wrist, slammed it to steel; the blade skittered away. People love knives when they don’t understand leverage. Her pen squeaked soft and nasty down the next throat.
Four.

They hustled her onto the dock and into light. The warehouse spread in pockets: low amber cones pooling under high sodium lamps; one corridor lined with ring lights white halos with black void between; plastic sheets clacked faintly in the air’s current; smoke hugged the floor like a rumor waiting to be believed.
Boots scuffed. Radios breathed. Doors waited to lie.
Two moved in with measured hands. She broke one on a hip pivot, folded the other with a misstep she lent him, inked both before their eyes caught up.
Five.
Six.

A silhouette at the lip of amber. Gino. Suit under a soft jacket. No words.
She closed like a period.
His punch had weight and confidence; hers had leverage and malice. Inside his arc heel of her hand to the hinge of his jaw, a switch foot hooked his heel, center gone. He hit chest-first; her knee doubled him and something in his ribs complained. She dragged the marker once, twice, three times across his throat, hard enough the skin rasped. When he tried to rise, she set him back down with a palm across the serratus and left a bruise that would sing tomorrow.
Seven.

Leave him there. Lessons don’t need commentary.

The ring-light corridor beckoned. Circles of harsh white; rectangles of dark. Men waited under the second ring and the fifth, patient silhouettes. She stepped into the black between halos and let their eyes overexpose.
Under the second ring a body lunged—telegraphing everything. She ghosted past, trapped elbow, turned height into lever, wrote his throat without breaking stride.
Eight.

The next tried to time the flicker. She timed his timing and made it comedy: heel to calf, shoulder bump to steal balance, ink like a signature on a bad contract.
Nine.

Halfway down a side door blew inward smoke, a shoulder, urgency. Let the smoke play for them. She ducked low, took a knee sideways, shoved him back into the halo, wrote him clean.
Ten.

Three moved as a pack. Lovely. Math she could eat. Feint right, pivot left, hip turn one down; a trip stacked the second over the first; a wrist twist fed the third to the wall. Throat, throat, throat. The marker knew where to go.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Sing it. Keep the brain from doing the bad thing.

The rings died at once black box. Someone thought they were clever. In the dark, breath is a map. She stepped into the shadow like it had been drawn for her. First silhouette’s inhale betrayed him; wrist, turn, down; ink by feel alone, precise.
Fourteen.

Another crept. Her back elbow found ribs; his grunt gave angle; she used his belt as a handle, posted him on a crate, slashed.
Fifteen.

Plastic whispered left, grit ticked right. She smiled into the black.

Oh baby. Hide-and-seek with knives.

Light bled back in pieces. Under an amber pool, a heavier man waited—teacher’s stance. Not a graduate, Dom himself. Bare forearms, tape on the wrists, the set of a man who never pulled with her and won’t start now.
He lifted his chin a fraction. Invitation accepted.
They met like weather fronts, pressure and pressure.
Dom’s jab was a metronome; his cross a hammer; his feet made small truths. She shaved the cross by air and put knuckles into his tricep to gray the arm. He answered by crowding her space and stealing her step. She fed him a clinch he thought he owned and turned it on a hip pivot he’d taught her six different ways. His back met a crate; he bounced off, smiling beneath the mask in the way his shoulders told on him.
No words. The respect was the silence.
He changed levels; she sprawled with love and hatred. He snapped an underhook and tried to climb; she stripped it and chased the outside angle. He dumped her to a knee; she rose into him with a shoulder that stole his breath. The room narrowed to two people who refused to insult each other with mercy.
They hit the floor together and rolled through it clean—no scrabble, no panic—just math. He tried to isolate an arm; she crowded him with hips and stole the geometry. He posted a palm to lift; she fed it into a trap and turned his momentum. He hit on his side; she rode the bounce into top and pinned him with forearm across collarbone, thigh heavy across his waist.
He bucked. She let him practice survival for one beat, then shut the door with her weight and the bone knowledge of him. The pen laid a crisp black verdict where his throat would be if she were cruel.
Sixteen.

Her breath hitched, exertion, affection, triumph and a grin cut through it. She didn’t say it out loud, but the thought came anyway.

Sorry, big guy. I’ll bring the ice pack.

She squeezed his shoulder once, thank you for not insulting me with half-strength, then rose.
The bay breathed they both did. Plastic clacked. Radios murmured. Smoke kept its secret.
Footsteps gathered behind her, men who had watched their anchor fall. They rushed together because fear makes people think harmony wins fights. She yanked a tarp down like a curtain. In the blind instant, left-hand then right-hand, she wrote both throats ambidextrous and petty. The marker squealed its approval.
Seventeen. Eighteen.

The floor seam changed pitch beneath her boots: ankle trap. She gave them a ballet instead. Step, pivot, step, plant—ballerina turned butcher.

Balance, baby. That’s the whole sin.

A deeper tread entered the bay. Her spine knew before her eyes bothered.
He stepped from the shadow: tall, deliberate, full-face skull mask—bone-white composite, matte; lower jaw a hinged plate locked under a chin strap. Tactical blacks. No insignia. No tells.
He didn’t posture. He didn’t speak.
The room re-ordered. Even the plastic listened.
They moved at the same time.

He was faster than anyone else—clean, economical. Not hungry. Intent. His first touch was the old conversation: hips, posture, breath—the three places he always tried to own so hers stayed free everywhere else. Heat flared low at the recognition.

You.

She didn’t know by sight. She knew by his aura. Precision. Restraint that wasn’t mercy; it was respect weaponized.
He took her wrist; she turned out. He chased the frame; she broke it. He went for her hips again—of course; she clamped and pivoted inside, hissing when his forearm tried to pour her toward the ground. He lifted—intent to set, not slam. She posted. They hit a crate; wood barked.
Palm strike—blocked. Elbow—redirected. He changed levels; she sprawled and sprang, a cat built of math. He closed and she smelled it—under leather and clean—his particular, infuriating warmth.

Mine.

The skull gave nothing away. The body was scripture.
She feinted drop, reversed when he bit the wrong beat on purpose. He let her have space she didn’t want, then stole it back with the step she’d seen the night he took a gun out of a stranger’s hand without bruising pride.
He didn’t pull. She didn’t either.
They crashed. Learned. Unlearned. Years compressed into a handful of breaths, violent and reverent and wrong to call anything but holy.
He hit a throw that would have ended anyone else. She rode it, twisted mid-air, landed half on a crate edge, used the rebound to spear his ribs with a shoulder. The skull rang wood. His grunt, private, rough hammered through her chest.
She caught his wrist, shoved it to boards, pinned his forearm with her knee. For one ruthless beat she dragged the marker across the skull’s throat line—black on bone-white. Petty. Perfect.
Nineteen.

He reversed fast, brutal, beautiful. They rolled. His weight hit like truth; her back kissed concrete. He shifted—careful—to keep the crate from cracking the back of her head. Of course he did. The inch of mercy cost him position.

She snaked an arm free, posted heel to calf, stole his base by a breath. He dropped to a knee. She climbed his frame like a problem she’d solved at 3 a.m., thighs cinched high on his hips. He tried to peel; she anticipated. Their breaths braided.
He sought a cross-grip on her wrists; she traded him one, took the other, fed him toward a choke track. He defended, shoulder welded under her sternum, so close the air between them forgot it was separate.

Say you don’t love this.

The radio behind them hissed a question no one answered.
He surged; she let him, then spooled it into a takedown he didn’t see because love makes you arrogant in half-inch places. They slid into crates. He planted a palm beside her head to keep the wood from kissing her skull too hard. Gentleman even in ruin infuriating, adored.
She used the saved inch to swim her forearm under his jaw plate, levered his head, and walked him backward. The hinged jaw clacked against its strap.
She locked him, forearm across collarbone, knee riding his thigh, her weight a live animal. The skull stared her down. Sweat broke cold along her back. Heat climbed everywhere else.
His free hand found her hip to lift; she denied it. He tried again; she met, ground, pressed. The whole world shrank to friction and fight and the knowledge that only two people ever made this shape together.

Mine. Always mine. Even when we’re trying to ruin each other.

He braced to bridge. She broke it with a vicious little hip pop and dragged him fully under. Her heart slammed. She could take him. She could let him take her. Same sentence either way.
No permission needed.
She found the hinge latch under the jaw, flicked it. The lower plate swung down on its strap, baring his mouth and jaw, the wreck she’d made of his breath.
She bent and kissed him hard, sure, a brand more than a kiss, claim and thank-you and dare, poured into one rough press. His mouth met hers with that feral gratitude she liked too much; the sound he made was wrecked and relieved at once.
She smiled into him, lips still to his, whispering, low and private, smug as sin:
“So, how’d I do?”

He laughed—not a chuckle, not a polite exhale—loud, helpless, honest. It rattled his ribs under her palm. It said I’ve been dying to hear you ask me that. It said Only you.

She kissed him once more like punctuation, then let the jaw plate fall, the skull settling back between them.