KNIGHT
"Should we really be allowing this to happen?" Rico asked as he watched Fang and Sniper wrap knuckle tape around Knight's bruised hands.
Chameleon—real name Marco—yawned beside him, completely unbothered by the stench of blood, sweat, and urine that filled the underground fight ring. People roared from the stands above, pressed around the steel cage at the center of the room.
"Knight! Knight! Knight!" they chanted in wild rhythm.
A woman near the front pulled down her gown and exposed her breasts, screaming, "Knight, I love you!"
The man beside her glanced at her, then lunged, latching his mouth onto one of her nipples. She giggled, throwing her head back.
Rico had only been here twice, and he already knew he'd never get used to this madness.
He turned just in time to see Knight shove Sniper's hand away as he tried to wipe the blood off his face.
A true sociopath.
Knight's next opponent climbed into the ring, raising his hands to the crowd and baring his teeth like he'd already won. Cocky fool.
Marco leaned toward Rico. "We should definitely be allowing this. Unless you want to volunteer as his punching bag when he gets like this."
Rico shivered.
He was bigger than Knight—taller, broader—but it didn't matter. Strength wasn't the weapon Knight relied on. It was the skill. The darkness. The ten broken bodies lying in the corner of the cage were proof enough.
"No way, man. But still... Knight's made a lot of enemies. He could be attacked. And besides, this is his eleventh fight tonight. He should rest."
Chameleon looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "You do remember we lost billions in that fire, right? Knight would never take it out on us—so this? This is good. He's getting it out somewhere else. I don't know what your problem is."
Rico sighed. He got it. He was glad Knight wasn't turning that rage on them. But watching him now, beating another man senseless as the crowd screamed and tossed dollar bills in the air, still didn't sit right.
He turned back to Chameleon. "Okay, I don't expect him to ignore the fire or act like it didn't matter. But he looked fine earlier. He even did a video with his wife. He smiled, laughed…"
Chameleon nodded slowly. "That was Kieran. Not Knight."
Rico rubbed a hand down his face. "They're the same person, man."
Chameleon tilted his head, watching the fight just as the opponent managed to land a punch to Knight's abdomen.
"They share a body," he said. "But they're not the same person."
"Damn… I mean, yeah, I knew he was different down here. But this? It's crazy. Kinda sick."
Chameleon's eyes narrowed. Then he smiled—though it wasn't a real smile. "That's Knight for you. Crazy, sick, twisted."
He leaned back on the steel railings, just as Knight ducked a wild swing and rammed his knee into the guy's gut. The crack echoed like splintering wood.
The man collapsed, coughing blood.
Knight didn't stop.
He straddled the man and began pounding his face with fists like iron. The crowd went wild—some in joy, some in horror. A woman fainted. The man beside her laughed.
"Jesus," Rico muttered. "He's gonna kill him."
"He won't," Chameleon replied, though his voice didn't sound so sure. "He knows the rules. Barely. Just enough not to kill. But if he does… well, not our mess."
The bell rang.
Knight didn't stop.
Sniper was first to leap into the ring, shouting his name. Knight didn't move.
Then Fang climbed in behind him, grabbed his shoulders, and whispered something in his ear.
Knight froze.
Then he stood.
The man on the ground didn't move. A medic rushed in, dragging his kit. Rico looked away, bile rising in his throat.
Knight stepped out of the cage—no victory pose, no grin. Just blood dripping from his wraps, his expression unreadable.
Like a ghost. Or something worse.
He passed them without saying a word, but Rico felt it—that darkness clinging to him like fog. Heavy. Dangerous.
"He's gone," Chameleon said quietly. "Kieran's gone. We won't see him for a while."
"You sure?"
Chameleon didn't answer. He just lit a cigarette, staring at the blood being wiped from the cage floor.
"Depends on when the monster inside gets tired."
Rico exhaled shakily. "And if he doesn't?"
Chameleon took a slow drag. "Then we're all dead men walking."
Knight's men stood silently behind him.
They were still inside the underground fighting ring, but now in a private room—one reserved for Knight alone. The room was nearly empty, cold and sterile, with just a bed in the center draped in red sheets.
A woman lay on the bed, completely naked, relaxed like she belonged there. She watched Knight as he stood by the window, blood still crusted along his jaw, a cigarette between his lips.
Smoke curled around his face as he exhaled slowly.
No one spoke.
Not a single man dared say a word.
They just waited, watching him, waiting for the monster to either speak—or finally rest.
The woman rose from the bed and crawled to its edge, her bare skin glowing under the dim light.
"Knight, come here," she purred. "Why are you just staring out the window? Am I not a more pleasant sight than that?"
He didn't move at first. Just stood there like a statue.
Then he turned.
She was stunning—curves like temptation sculpted into flesh. And she knew it. Batting her lashes, she arched her back and gave her hips a little shake, pouting like a vixen who always got what she wanted.
Knight stepped forward. Slowly.
When he reached her, his hand shot out and twisted into her hair. Not gentle. Tight.
She moaned, eager. "I've missed you. Didn't you miss me?" she asked, her voice dripping with seduction.
He stared at her blankly, then looked away.
"Get me an angel," he muttered.
Fang nodded from behind and turned to carry out the order.
The woman reached for Knight again, pressing her face against his crotch like a cat in heat.
"You're not my woman," Knight said flatly.
She only smirked and ran her tongue along the bulge in his slacks. "Who cares? She's not here. She doesn't need to know."
"I'll know," he murmured.
Still, he didn't stop her. She licked and nuzzled, but something was wrong. There was no response—no heat, no stir beneath the fabric.
Nothing.
Her eyes flicked up, confused.
Knight's smirk deepened, but it was hollow. His hand remained in her hair, not affectionate but possessive, like a leash.
She slid her fingers under his waistband, and still—nothing.
Knight leaned down, his voice a low growl wrapped in frost.
"You could be the last woman alive on Earth…" he whispered, "and I'd still be as cold as I am right now."
Her smile faltered. Her gaze turned sharp. "What's so special about her? Your little wifey? The one you pretend to love so much?"
He said nothing.
Then, without warning, he shoved her back. She yelped, landing awkwardly on the bed, her pride bruised more than her body.
Her glare burned with rage and shame—but he was already walking away.
Fang opened the door.
"Got one," he said quietly.
Knight gave a single nod, stepped through, and they all walked down the long hallway. The sound of their boots echoed in the silence.
In the underground parking lot, Fang handed him a phone.
A voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and sweet.
"I'll be right back, Daddy. Just keep that dick hard for me."
There was a shuffle of movement on the line.
Then the same voice returned, this time calm, cold, professional.
"Yes, boss."
"Get rid of him and disappear. New orders coming in five."
The line went dead.