The day crawled by like a wounded animal dragging itself across hot asphalt. Every tick of the ancient clock above the register seemed to echo the weight of that empty letter, its blank accusation still burning a hole in the back of my mind. I mechanically wiped down the counter for the third time, watching the last customer—Mrs. Henderson with her usual Tuesday lasagna order—disappear into the amber glow of the streetlights.
I smiled bright as he left.
A smile goes a long way when you are in hospitality.
The diner fell into that familiar post-rush silence, broken only by the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the distant rumble of traffic. I stared at my reflection in the chrome surface of the coffee machine, seeing a girl who looked like she'd been running from ghosts all day. Which, let's be honest, wasn't far from the truth.
I made a decision that would have made my past self slap me senseless. I was going to search for him. The very thing I'd sworn off like a recovering addict avoiding their dealer's street. But I had to know if it was really him, and if it was, then how the hell did he come out of jail? Most importantly, when?
A cherry red Toyota Camry that had seen better decades came screeching to a halt outside the diner like it was auditioning for a Fast and Furious movie. I didn't need to see the driver to know who it was—the aggressive honking was signature Emma, complete with her inability to understand that honking doesn't actually make people move faster.
"COME ON, SLOWPOKE!" her voice carried through the glass, probably waking up half the neighborhood.
I held up five fingers through the window, mouthing "five minutes" with the kind of exaggerated patience usually reserved for toddlers having meltdowns. Emma responded by laying on the horn again, because subtlety was clearly not in her vocabulary tonight.
I retreated to the backroom, which doubled as my makeshift changing area and storage space. Despite being cramped with boxes of pasta and canned tomatoes, I kept it meticulously clean. The last thing I wanted was to serve someone food that had been contaminated by whatever mysterious substance might be lurking in forgotten corners. So, it was a ritual for me to clean this room every two to three days. The room smelled like fresh bread and possibilities, if possibilities came in industrial-sized packages.
I pulled my emergency outfit from the upper locker behind the door—a strategic placement I'd perfected after one too many surprise invitations from Emma. The red boat neck crop top felt like silk against my skin after a day of polyester uniforms. It ended just shy of my belly button, walking that fine line between flirty and scandalous. The black straight-fit pants hugged my legs like they were custom-made, which they definitely weren't, but clearance rack miracles do happen.
The white cardigan was my armor. I tied it around my waist in what I liked to call an "elegant twist," though it was really just me trying to look put-together while preparing for whatever chaos Emma had planned. Normally I'd wear it properly over my shoulders, but underground fighting arena called for a more... accessible approach. Plus, I'd need it for the journey home when the night air would bite at my skin.
I released my hair from its regular bun, letting the waves cascade down my shoulders. My fingers worked through the tangles, each stroke a small rebellion against the day's constraints. I fluffed the waves out and then I was ready.
I grabbed my purse, checked that my knife was still nestled safely in my back pocket—a habit that had saved my ass more times than I cared to count—and locked up the diner. The fluorescent lights died one by one as I flipped the switches, leaving the space in darkness until morning would resurrect it again.
Doja Cat's voice poured from Emma's radio like liquid confidence, the bass vibrating through the cracked asphalt. I approached the car with the measured steps of someone walking toward either adventure or disaster—the jury was still out on which.
"WOOHOOO!" Emma's celebration could probably be heard from space. "You look so pretty! My eyes literally cannot believe you were just elbow-deep in mozzarella and meat sauce like twenty minutes ago."
"Says Miss Anne Hathaway with the red hair upgrade," I shot back, sliding into the passenger seat. The car smelled like vanilla body spray and the faint hint of mint that seemed to follow Emma everywhere.
Emma didn't need to try to look stunning—she just existed in that space naturally. Tonight she'd gone for what she called "effortless princess," which involved minimal makeup that somehow made her look like she'd stepped off a magazine cover, and a violet-blue A-line dress that fell to her knees with mathematical precision. The beige open-front cropped cardigan completed the look, making her appear both approachable and utterly untouchable.
"So," she said, pulling away from the curb with the confidence of someone who'd definitely failed her first driving test, "ready for some educational entertainment?"
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Hey, it's cultural anthropology."
I snorted. "I'm not sure if that even makes sense, but I have a feeling you might be leading us into a situation where our lives are at stake."
"Probably. But what a way to go, right?"
As we drove through increasingly questionable neighborhoods, Emma regaled me with the folklore of underground fighting that she'd somehow absorbed through her mysterious network of information sources.
"So apparently," she began, gesturing wildly with one hand while steering with the other in a way that made me seriously question my life choices, "you can place bets on these fights. Most of the fighters are there purely for the money. Win once, and you can supposedly live decently for a month. But here's the kicker—there are literally no rules."
"I would expect no less, to be honest."
"Right? And some of these guys are so brutal they keep pummeling their opponents even when they're out cold. It's like they missed the memo that the point is to win, not commit manslaughter."
"Sounds like a charming evening out. Very romantic."
Emma laughed, the sound bright against the darkening sky. "Oh, and sometimes it turns into a free-for-all. Six months ago, some psychopath killed a rookie on his first match—can you imagine? First time stepping into the ring and boom, lights out permanently. The dead guy's friends decided to avenge him, which brought more people into the mix, and eventually it turned into a full-scale riot."
"Let me guess—stampede?"
"Bingo. The whole operation got shut down after that. They just reopened last week, so we're basically attending the grand reopening of organized violence. How's that for timing?"
I rolled down the window, letting the cool evening air wash over my face. "You have an absolutely spectacular talent for avoiding danger, Ems."
"I prefer to think of it as keeping life interesting. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
"Probably not."
"So, is that guy still fighting?" I asked.
She pondered over it for a few moments, before turning to me with a sheepish smile, "Forgot to ask."
"Fantastic. So we're potentially watching a murderer beat people to death for entertainment."
"When you put it like that, it sounds way worse than it is."
"Emma, there is no way to make that sound better."
We fell into comfortable conversation after that, her voice weaving stories about cheerleading practice and college plans while I half-listened, half-watched the scenery grow progressively more concerning. Emma was my safe harbor in a world that often felt too sharp, too loud, too much. She could talk for hours about the most mundane things and make them sound like adventures, while I could listen to her voice like a meditation. Unlike most people, she never got frustrated with my tendency to observe rather than participate in conversations.
What struck me as odd was how confidently she navigated these increasingly suspicious back roads. No GPS, no phone calls for directions, no hesitation at intersections that looked like they led to either drug deals or body dumps. How exactly did Emma know the way to an underground fighting arena that had been closed for months?
I filed that question away for later, along with all the other small mysteries that surrounded my best friend.
Our destination materialized out of the darkness like something from a fever dream—a nondescript storage building squatting in the middle of nowhere like a concrete toad. People milled around outside, their silhouettes dark against the harsh security lighting. In the distance, I could see the main road, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars, so far away they might as well have been on another planet.
The isolation was strategic, I realized. You could detonate a bomb out here and it still would not attract attention unless specifically mentioned.
"Cheeky," I muttered, taking in the crowd of people. They all looked like high-schoolers. Some of them looked like they spelled danger with a capital D. But then, what else should I expect from a place like this. It's not a church.
"I think the guys are inside," Emma said, checking her phone. "They texted that they're already here."
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the entrance with the enthusiasm of someone who'd clearly never watched a horror movie. I patted my back pocket reflexively, confirming my knife was still there. Call it paranoia, but I'd learned that being prepared for the worst was usually just being realistic.
The inside of the building looked like what would happen if a bar and a crack house had a baby and then abandoned it. The lighting was dim enough to hide structural damage but bright enough to highlight the peeling paint and suspicious stains on the walls. The air was thick with sweat and cheap alcohol. It carried that salty smell with a metallic tint which was probably the result of no ventilation in the room.
In various corners, people were engaged in activities that ranged from making out to what I could only assume was recreational drug use. Phonk music was blaring in the background and there were some people in the center of the room moving to its beats.
"There they are!" Emma's voice cut through the chaos as she spotted our target demographic.
She dragged me toward a group occupying a couch that looked like it had been rescued from a condemned building. I recognized some faces from school—the usual suspects from the football and volleyball teams.
Kraig, our quarterback and resident golden boy, looked up as we approached. He was the kind of guy who'd peaked in high school and would spend the rest of his life trying to recapture that glory. "We were waiting for you," he said, as if we were late for a board meeting instead of whatever this was.
Logan was there too, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. I could relate.
"Did it start?" Emma asked, bouncing on her toes with anticipation.
"Not yet, but it's about to. We need to head downstairs."
The basement was accessed through a staircase that looked like it had been designed by someone with a grudge against knees. The fighting area was set up like a gladiatorial arena for the budget-conscious—raised platform in the center, surrounded by seating that had definitely seen better decades.
We claimed spots in the fourth row, close enough to see the action but far enough back to make a quick exit if necessary. The crowd was a mixture of thrill-seekers, degenerates, and people who probably had excellent life insurance policies. Now that I think about it again, I would rule out the third simply because we are living in Blackridge. That is only possible if you are from outside of here.
The announcer emerged from the shadows like a carnival barker who'd fallen on hard times. Middle-aged, weathered, and speaking with the kind of enthusiasm that is infectious and gets your blood pumping.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying despite the lack of amplification, "welcome to the return of underground fighting!"
The crowd roared approval, and I felt my stomach drop as he continued.
"Our first fighter, is a rookie that has just started today, weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds of pure destruction..."
My blood turned to ice water.
"...Nate Morrison!"
The name hit me like a physical blow. Before my brain could process what I'd heard, my eyes found him striding toward the center of the ring. Shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, moving with the confident grace of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
I sighed as the need to leave this place amplified inside me along with a strange rope that was tugging at me to stay here.
What the heck is he doing?
This was definitely going to be a long night.