The gym went silent, the only sound the rhythmic, rhythmic hiss of a leaking steam pipe. Jax didn't move like a student; he moved like a landslide. When the big man lunged, the air itself seemed to displace, carrying the scent of tobacco and old leather.
Blake didn't move. Not until the last possible millisecond.
He slipped the first jab, the wind of the fist whistling past his ear like a passing bullet. He didn't counter. He just danced—a fluid, frustrating shadow that stayed exactly two inches out of Jax's reach.
"Stand still, you little rat!" Jax roared, swinging a massive overhand right that would have decapitated a normal teenager.
Blake took it.
He didn't have to, but a "nobody" scholarship kid doesn't dodge a professional enforcer forever. He tucked his chin and tensed his frame, letting the blow clip his shoulder and collarbone. The force was immense, sending him sprawling back into the rusted chain-link of the cage with a violent clang.
Crunch. Pain flared, sharp and grounding. Blake tasted copper as his lip split. He looked up, a strand of dark hair falling over his eyes, a small, bloody smirk tugging at his mouth.
"That all you got?" Blake spat, wiping a crimson smear across his sleeve.
Jax charged again, fueled by pure embarrassment. This time, Blake didn't just dodge. He stepped into the man's guard, his elbow finding the soft tissue of Jax's ribs—hard enough to crack a floating rib, but quiet enough that it looked like a desperate, lucky shove. He followed with a jagged snap-kick to the shin that made the giant stumble.
For three minutes, it was a clinic in "controlled struggle." Blake took enough hits to look human, but he landed the ones that counted. By the time Vane stood up, Jax was wheezing, his face a mask of purple frustration. Blake stood panting, leaning against the cage with a black eye already blossoming in shades of violet.
"Enough," Vane barked.
The room held its breath. Vane walked over, looking at the kid who refused to stay down. "You've got grit, kid. And you've got eyes that have seen more than a classroom. You want a shield? You've got one. But if that SUV outside breathes a word to the feds, it's your head on the block."
An hour later, the rain had settled into a cold, clinging mist. Blake stood by his Cafe Racer in the alley, every breath a sharp reminder of his cracked ribs. His torso was taped tight, and his face was a mess of bruises, but his mind was crystal clear.
The hunters were still out there. They were waiting for him to move.
Vane stepped out of the back door, tossing a heavy, cold object. Blake caught it mid-air with instinctive grace. It was a Sig Sauer P320, its polymer frame matte and utilitarian.
"In case the bike isn't fast enough," Vane grunted. "Get out of Silverport for a week. Let the heat die down. Go to Oakhaven—it's a ghost town three hours north. My guys will keep the SUV busy for the next ten miles."
Blake tucked the weapon into a concealed holster at his small of his back. "I'll be back."
"Don't count on it," Vane muttered, turning back to the darkness of the gym.
Blake kicked the racer to life. He didn't head for his apartment or grab his gear. Everything he truly needed was encrypted in the cloud or strapped to his waist.
As he tore out of the alley, two Iron Fang chargers—heavy, reinforced muscle cars with blacked-out glass—roared out of an adjacent garage. They swerved with synchronized precision directly into the path of the black SUV as it started to pull forward.
Metal screeched against metal. A distraction. A debt paid in burnt rubber and blood.
Blake didn't look back. He tucked low against the fuel tank, the needle on the speedometer climbing: 90... 110... 130... The neon of Silverport faded into a blur in his rearview. He wasn't just leaving a city; he was resetting the board. He was a ghost again, and this time, he had a gun.