Chapter 4
Mickey trained me hard.
He showed me how to move without using my ribs too much.
How to dodge. How to counter. How to wait.
"The Reaper is a killer," he said. "But he's predictable. He always leads with his left. Always. He thinks no one can stop it, so he doesn't bother with anything else."
He demonstrated.
"Duck left. Drive your right fist into his side. Right where the ribs meet the hip. He wears a pad there in training. But tomorrow night? No pad. Just bone and flesh."
He paused.
"Hit him there hard enough... and he can't breathe. Can't fight. Can't hurt you."
I practiced.
Over and over.
Until my arms burned. Until my ribs screamed.
And while we trained, Mickey told me things.
About Vincent.
About how he ran this ring.
About how he found desperate people. People with sick family members. People with debts. People with no other way out.
"He makes them fight," Mickey said. "And when they can't fight anymore... he throws them away."
He looked at The Reaper, who was now sitting in the corner, staring at his hands.
"Even him," Mickey whispered. "He didn't choose this. Vincent has his daughter. She's sick. Leukemia. Vincent pays for her treatment. And in return... The Reaper fights. And kills. And does whatever Vincent tells him."
My blood ran cold.
The Reaper wasn't a monster.
May you like
He was just like me.
Desperate.
