Chapter 77
Raven
The underground fighting venue was exactly what I'd expected—grimy concrete walls, air thick with testosterone and cheap beer, and the distinctive scent of desperation that always accompanies illegal gambling operations. Ben's car had barely stopped before I was out and moving toward the entrance, my body already humming with anticipation.
"Holy shit," I murmured, stepping into the main arena where hundreds of spectators were packed shoulder-to-shoulder around a central ring. The noise was deafening—a cacophony of shouts, bets, and the pounding bass from speakers that had seen better days.
Ben appeared at my side, looking simultaneously relieved and nervous. "Thanks again for doing this. The boss is getting impatient."
I cast an amused glance at the sea of bodies surrounding the ring. "Well, well... your little problem seems to be quite the crowd-pleaser," I teased, nudging Ben with my elbow. "Filling your dingy basement with all these paying customers. Poor you."
Ben's face darkened. "Bodies don't pay bills," he growled. "I need fighters willing to step in that ring, and bettors willing to lose their paychecks. All this?" He gestured wildly at the crowd. "Just freeloaders enjoying the goddamn show."
I followed his gaze to the center of the room where a makeshift boxing ring stood elevated under harsh spotlights. Inside it, a figure in motion caught my eye—all fluid grace and controlled power. A woman with vibrant red hair pulled into a tight ponytail was running through practice combinations, her body gleaming with sweat as she shadowboxed with invisible opponents. Each movement was precise, economical—the hallmark of extensive professional training.
Behind her, an electronic display board flashed "38-0" in angry red digits.
"Jesus," I whispered, suddenly understanding the problem. She was good. Really good.
Ben pointed toward the ring. "That's her. Calls herself 'Crimson.' Showed up last week out of nowhere. Won't leave until someone beats her." His expression darkened. "Nobody has even come close."
I felt a slow smile spreading across my face. Something about her movements tickled at my memory—that particular pivot of the hip before a cross, the specific angle she held her guard.
"Raven!" Ben snapped his fingers in front of my face. "You with me? Here—" He gestured to an assistant who approached with boxing gear—gloves, headgear, mouthpiece.
I took only the gloves, slipping them on with practiced ease.
"Aren't you going to—" Ben gestured at the headgear.
"Restricts my vision," I replied, already walking toward the ring. "And where's the fun in that?"
I slipped through the ropes with a fluid grace that silenced the nearest spectators. The sudden drop in volume rippled outward like a wave until even those at the back were craning their necks to see what had happened.
A teenage girl had entered the champion's domain.
The whispers turned to laughter, then to jeers.
"Is this a joke?"
"Someone call child services!"
"She's not even wearing headgear!"
I ignored them all, my focus narrowing to the redhead who had stopped mid-combination to stare at me. Up close, she was even more impressive—tall and lean with defined muscles that spoke of years of dedicated training. Her tank top revealed intricate tattoos spiraling up both arms, and a faded scar bisected one eyebrow. But it was her eyes that confirmed what I'd suspected—sharp, calculating, and achingly familiar.
"Scarlet. My right hand. My best asset. My friend."
Well, fuck me sideways. When she'd messaged about "sweating it out gloriously," she hadn't been having sex after all. She'd been here, beating the shit out of people for fun and profit.
She flipped a sweaty strand of hair from her face and cocked her head, studying me with predatory amusement. "Little girl," she drawled in that familiar husky contralto, "you lost or just looking for death by knockout?"
I could have revealed myself then. Could have said something only Phantom would know. But something more primal took over—curiosity, competitive spirit, and if I'm honest, a desire to show off.
"I heard you were supposed to be good," I replied with deliberate nonchalance. "But all I see is someone who beats up weekend warriors and drunks." I shrugged. "I might look young, but I fight mean. No rules, no mercy, no principles—just the way I like it."
Scarlet's expression shifted from amused to irritated. She stalked forward, all coiled danger and casual confidence.
"Is that so? Guess I'll have to teach you some manners along with that beatdown." She turned toward the referee who was approaching with visible reluctance. "Let's get this over with."
I held up my hand. "Wait a second." I turned toward where Ben stood by the ropes. "Uncle Ben! What are the odds on this fight?"
Ben blinked, startled at being addressed. "One to fifty-eight," he called back.
I smiled slowly, deliberately. "Put one hundred thousand on me to win."
The statement landed like a grenade in the suddenly silent space. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the crowd erupted.
"A hundred grand on Red!"
"Putting my BMW on this fight!"
"Selling my fucking house to bet on this one!"
I watched with detached amusement as people stampeded toward the betting tables, practically throwing their money away. Poor bastards. They had no idea what was coming.
Scarlet's eyebrows shot up. "Either you're insane or daddy's very rich," she observed dryly. "Either way, I almost feel bad about taking your money."
The referee called us to center ring. The rules were simple—or rather, the lack of rules. No eye gouging, no weapons. Everything else was fair game until knockout or submission.
As we touched gloves, I felt that familiar rush of pre-combat focus washing over me. My senses sharpened, the world slowed down, and the crowd faded to white noise.
The bell rang.
Scarlet didn't waste time. She launched forward with a perfectly executed right cross that would have separated most people from consciousness. It was her signature opening move—start strong, end quickly.
I blocked it with my forearm, absorbing the impact without giving a single inch of ground.
The sudden silence from the crowd was almost comical. Scarlet's eyes widened—not at the block itself, but at the fact that I hadn't moved. My feet remained planted, solid as bedrock beneath her considerable power.
She recovered quickly, launching into a combination of strikes that I recognized all too well. I'd helped her develop that particular sequence in a safehouse in Prague five years ago.
I countered with mechanical precision—jab, cross, hook, each flowing into the next like water. Scarlet defended admirably, her guard tight and reflexes sharp, but I could see uncertainty creeping into her movements. Her footwork, previously so confident, became increasingly chaotic as she struggled to predict my attacks.
"What the hell..." she muttered between breaths as I forced her backward with another flurry. She attempted a counter-attack, a clever feint followed by an uppercut, but I read the move before she'd even finished the setup.
I let her fist graze my cheek—close enough to feel the air displacement but not the impact—before launching another barrage. Left, right, body shot, step back, duck, weave, advance. The rhythm was comfortingly familiar, like slipping into a favorite weapon.
Scarlet was breathing hard now, her defensive movements becoming reactive rather than strategic. With each exchange, I could see recognition beginning to dawn in her eyes—not of my face, but of my style. The particular angle of my hooks. The timing of my footwork. The way I telegraphed right but delivered left.
"This technique..." she whispered, her guard momentarily lowering in shock. "It can't be..."
I capitalized on her distraction with a flurry of strikes that drove her back against the ropes. The crowd was going wild, but all I could focus on was the growing realization in Scarlet's eyes.
"The way you move," she gasped between labored breaths, her voice dropping so only I could hear. "This precision, this pressure, this presence..."
I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face.
"What's wrong, Scarlet?" I murmured too quietly for anyone else to hear. "Feeling like you've seen a ghost?"