Chapter 22: An Old Rival’s Revelation (Nico POV)

Kieran’s basement is dark now, screens black, that attack wiping everything. “Someone doesn’t want you knowing the truth,” he’d said, and it’s stuck with me, heavy and cold. Silas is beside me, quiet, staring at the dead laptop, while I’m shaking, the idea of someone close screwing me over burning deep. “Inner circle,” Kieran called it—someone I trusted, someone I let in. My head’s spinning, names flashing—Ray, Zeke, old crew—and I can’t sit here anymore. “I’ve got to go,” I say, loud, standing fast, grabbing my jacket.

Silas looks up, fast. “Where?” he asks, voice rough. “Dante,” I say, firm, heading for the door. “Old rival, dancer. Might know something.” He stands, steps closer. “Nico, wait,” he says, soft. “Not alone again.” I shake my head, quick. “I need this,” I say, loud. “It’s my mess.” He nods, slow, worried, but I’m out, leaving him and Kieran behind, streets cold and wet under my feet.

Dante’s spot is a dive bar off 6th, low lights, beat-up sign. We were tight once, rivals pushing each other hard, until I got the big break and he didn’t. Last I saw him, he swore I’d regret it—years back, bitter and loud. My chest’s tight, betrayal from Kieran’s find mixing with old guilt. If he’s the one, I’ll know. I push the door open, air thick with smoke and beer, and spot him—tall, lean, dark hair, leaning on the bar, smirking when he sees me.

“Nico Ash,” he says, slow, voice sharp, standing straight. “Big shot crashing down.” I step closer, fists clenched. “We need to talk,” I say, loud, keeping my eyes on him. He laughs, short and mean, nodding to a back room. “Sure,” he says, walking off. I follow, heart pounding, bar noise fading as we hit a small space—table, chairs, walls scratched up. He sits, casual, but his eyes are hard. “What’s up?” he asks, leaning back.

I stay standing, voice tight. “You know about the video,” I say, sharp. “The blackmail. Was it you?” He smirks, slow, tilting his head. “Straight to it,” he says, quiet. “I heard, yeah. Not me.” I step closer, anger rising. “Then who?” I ask, loud. “Someone close, someone I trusted. You fit.” He stands, fast, close now, and I feel the old heat—us battling for every move, every spotlight. “You think I’d waste time on you?” he says, low. “After you left me behind?”

My throat’s dry, memories hitting—rehearsals, him pushing me, me pushing back, then me walking away when I got the call-up. “You hated me,” I say, quiet, staring him down. “Still do.” He nods, slow. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “But I’ve got my own game now. Don’t need your ruin.” I shake my head, fast. “Then give me something,” I say, loud. “You know this world. Who’s after me?”

He steps up, closer, and shoves me, hard. I stumble, catch myself, glare back. “Not free,” he says, sharp. “You want answers, earn them.” My chest burns, and I shove him back, table scraping loud. “Fine,” I say, loud, fists up. “Like old times.” He grins, mean, and swings—fast, clipping my shoulder. I duck, swing back, hit his side, and we’re on, trading blows, old rivalry alive again.

It’s quick, messy, fists landing hard, breath loud. He’s strong, always was, and I’m rusty, but I fight anyway, needing this out. “Tell me!” I yell, dodging a punch, slamming him into the wall. He grunts, pushes off, grabs my shirt, throws me back. “You don’t get it,” he says, loud, pinning me for a second. “Your rise? Not all you.” I freeze, panting, and he lets go, steps back, smirking again.

“What’s that mean?” I ask, voice shaking, wiping sweat off my face. He sits, slow, catching his breath. “Someone pulled strings,” he says, quiet. “Your big break? Fixed. People wanted you up.” My head spins, and I stare, chest heaving. “No,” I say, low. “I earned it.” He laughs, bitter. “You danced,” he says. “They picked. Same ones burying you now.” I step back, legs weak, feeling sick—my fame, my life, not mine?

“Who?” I ask, loud, stepping closer again. “Names!” He leans forward, eyes dark. “Big shots,” he says, slow. “Promoters, suits, ones you smiled for. You were their toy.” My stomach drops—Ray? Others I shook hands with, trusted? “Why me?” I say, quiet, voice breaking. He shrugs, calm. “You sold,” he says. “Then you slipped. Now they’re cleaning up.”

I pace, fast, head pounding. “What else?” I ask, loud, turning on him. “What don’t I know?” He stands, slow, voice low. “Your debts,” he says. “Started way back, before your tours tanked. They owned you early.” My breath stops—debts? I thought it was bad gigs, slow cash, but before? “How?” I say, sharp, grabbing his arm. He pulls free, hard. “Ask your old crew,” he says, cold. “Someone’s been counting.”

I’m reeling, everything I built crashing down—fake rise, hidden debts, people I trusted turning knives. “You’re lying,” I say, loud, but it’s weak, scared. He shakes his head, slow. “Wish I was,” he says, quiet. “Hate seeing you this dumb.” I want to hit him again, make him take it back, but he’s steady, and I feel it—truth, ugly and real, sinking in deep.

He turns, slow, heading for the door, and I grab at him. “Wait,” I say, loud. “Tell me more!” He stops, looks back, eyes hard. “You were never in control of your own success,” he says, slow, clear. “And now, they’re making sure you don’t survive your fall.” My heart drops, and he’s gone, walking out, leaving me alone, stuck with that bombshell, my world flipped, no clue what’s next.