There is an unwritten rule in the underground circuit of Ironford. The last fight before you walk away is always a death match. If you lose, your life stays on the canvas.

Almost everyone assumed I would walk out of the arena alive. For six straight months, my name had sat at the very top of the leaderboard, untouched.

I never expected to see Maeve Chasel stepping through the ropes. She was the one who had taught me how to fight. Every jab, every pivot, every lethal counter—it all came from her.

Against Maeve, I didn't stand a chance. The moment the bell rang, a barrage of vicious, calculated strikes rained down on me. I didn't even have time to set my stance.

A sickening "crack" echoed through the cage as my ribs gave way under her fist, and I crashed heavily onto the bloody canvas.

As the referee raised her hand and declared the match over, I heard Maeve’s soft, familiar sigh above the roaring crowd. "I'm sorry, Seth," she whispered, bending down toward me. "Yesterday was Damon's birthday.

His only wish was to see me beat you in the ring just once." She paused, brushing a streak of sweat from her forehead. "His health is deteriorating.

The doctors said he might not live to see another birthday. I had to grant him this one last wish." Below the ring, Damon Porter sat in his hightech wheelchair.

His cheeks were flushed with a healthy color, a subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his lips. I lay on the mat, my chest rising and falling in weak, agonized hitches.

Every shallow breath felt like a blade sliding into my chest. I didn't know if Damon would survive until next year.

But I knew with terrifying certainty that I wouldn't live to see the sun three days from now. 1 The deafening roars of the crowd suddenly faded into a dull, underwater hum.

Uncle Mac, the pit referee who had watched me grow up in this arena, rested a hand gently on my shoulder. "Can you get up, kid?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

I stayed flat on my back. My broken ribs felt like jagged splinters poking directly into my lung. When I tried to speak, my voice was barely a rattle in my throat. "Let it go, Mac.

It's over." Losing to Maeve... I accepted it.

After all, the only reason a street kid like me had managed to survive in a place that swallowed men whole was because of every strike and dodge she had drilled into me.

Just last night, I had been too wired to sleep.

I had climbed up to the highest rooftop above the gym, staring up at a sky full of stars while listening to her soft breath over the phone.

My heart had hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I asked her, my voice laced with hesitant hope, "Tomorrow is my last fight.

Are you coming to watch?" I had wanted Maeve to witness my final victory, to see me step out of the shadows for good.

A light laugh had drifted through the receiver. "Of course I will." She was a woman of her word. She had come.

She had personally replaced my scheduled opponent, stepped onto the canvas, and personally ended my life. Maeve unlaced her fighting gloves.

Her pale skin bore a few minor scratches from our clash. She extended a slender, wellmanicured hand toward me. "Don't be dramatic, Seth. Get up.

The ring is no place to act weak." I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached up toward hers.

But before my fingers could graze her skin, a sudden, wet cough echoed through the crowd.

Damon was hunched over in his wheelchair, clutching his chest, his shoulders quivering like a dry leaf in a autumn gale. Maeve’s brow furrowed instantly.

Without a second thought, she pulled her hand back, vaulted over the ring enclosure, and rushed to his side.

She gathered the fleece blanket resting on his lap and pulled it tightly around his shoulders. "It smells like blood down here, Damon.

You know your lungs can't handle this," she chided softly. "I told you I'd bring you home." Her tone sounded like a reprimand, but if you listened closely, it was soaked in helpless devotion. "You just had to see it yourself, didn't you?

If you wanted to know the outcome, I would have told you.

When have I ever broken a promise to you?" She kept a protective arm around Damon's shoulders as she wheeled him toward the exit.

Just as they reached the double doors, she paused and cast a glance back over her shoulder at me. "Stop playing dead on the floor, Seth.

I pulled my punches—I know my own strength," she said, her voice cool and practical. "I know you're upset that I broke your streak.

I'll pick you up tomorrow night and take you to that diner downtown you like." She spoke with the casual ease of someone who believed a hot meal could fix a shattered heart.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take over. She didn't get it. This time, there was no fixing this.

After the crowd dispersed, Uncle Mac helped me up and dragged me back to the locker room, begging me through choked tears to go to the emergency room.

When I pulled off my bloodsoaked fight gear, my torso was a landscape of violence. Deep purple and sickly green bruises bloomed across my pale skin, terrifying to look at.

Maeve’s fists had carried extra weight tonight. I poured stinging liniment directly over the open abrasions and wrapped my chest tightly with medical binding tape.

Only when the sharp pressure stabilized my ribs was I able to catch enough breath to speak. "I only have a few days left anyway, Mac.

Don't let me waste the money." I offered a small, strained smile, keeping my gaze lowered. "I need every cent left in my account for Gran's medical bills." I mentally calculated my bank balance, wondering if it would cover another few rounds of dialyzing for her.

My phone buzzed on the bench. A news push notification popped up on the screen.

The cover photo showed Maeve pushing Damon out of the fight pit, her head bowed toward him, her expression tender in a way she rarely showed the world.

The headline was bold and unapologetic: "CHASEL AND PORTER HEIRS SPOTTED TOGETHER: WEDDING BELLS IN THE NEAR FUTURE?" Whether intentionally or not, Damon had clicked 'like' on the article before quickly unliking it moments later.

Uncle Mac stood beside me, his voice cracking with sudden rage. "These damn paparazzi and their fake news! Ms. Chasel’s boyfriend is "you"!

Who the hell does this Porter kid think he—" I reached out and flipped the phone face down onto the wooden bench.

The bitter taste in my mouth tasted worse than blood. "They come from the same world, Mac," I whispered. "They look good together." 2 Before the silence in the locker room could settle, the heavy metal door was thrown open.

A neighbor from our street burst in, panting heavily, his face pale with panic. "Seth!

It's bad—it's really bad!" he gasped out. "Porter Enterprises brought in heavy machinery to demolish Mill Creek! They're forcing everyone out tonight!

They just dragged your grandmother out onto the street!" A cold shock shot through me.

I bolted up from the bench, ignoring the agonizing fire that ripped through my chest, and ran out into the night.

The sky outside hung low and bruised, heavy with the promise of snow. By the time I reached our narrow alley, the air was thick with yelling and the crunch of splintering wood.

My grandmother was slumped against the frozen dirt of the courtyard, our few pieces of worn furniture smashed into kindling around her.

Three men in tailored dark suits were pinning her fragile frame down, forcibly pressing her inkstained thumb onto a stack of legal documents. "Get your hands off her!" I grabbed a discarded iron pipe from the debris and swung it wildly at them.

They scattered with startled curses, allowing me to throw my body over Gran like a shield. The legal papers fluttered to the slushy ground, stamped with muddy boot prints.

I glanced down. In the section marked "Relocation Compensation", the payout figure was clearly printed: "$0.00". Blood roared in my ears.

I glared up at the suitclad men, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. "This is robbery!" Next door, Old Man Miller cracked his front door open, his white hair messy in the wind. "Seth, son, just tell your poor grandmother to sign it!" he yelled nervously. "Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to pay for her hospital bills!" My brain went completely numb. "What five hundred thousand?" Miller looked confused. "The relocation payout!

It’s the standard contract for the whole street—five hundred thousand per household!" I turned my head slowly, staring at the lead enforcer. "Why does ours say zero?" The man scoffed, dusting off his lapel with disdain. "You have yourself to blame for crossing people you shouldn't have.

Consider this a lesson in knowing your place. I suggest you sign, kid.

A sickly old bird like your grandmother isn't going to survive another week of us dropping by." A heavy, suffocating dread settled in my gut. People I shouldn't have crossed.

Porter Enterprises. Damon. My mind flashed back to the night Maeve had asked me to be hers.

Damon—who had always been in decent health—had suddenly suffered a rare, lifethreatening relapse and was rushed to the ICU. The entire Porter family went into a frenzy.

When the call came through, Maeve had been standing in my tiny bedroom, fastening her family's heirloom silver medallion around my neck. "Damon's in trouble," she had said.

And without another word, without looking back, she had walked out into the rain. When I saw her the next morning, that same silver medallion was resting against Damon's collarbone.

Maeve had stepped between us like a shield, treating me as if I were a threat. "Damon loved the piece," she had said, her voice clipped. "I'm letting him wear it for a while.

Don't be petty, Seth.

He's sick." Damon had smiled weakly at me from his bed, his hand reaching out to clasp mine. "I don't have much time left in this world, Seth," he had murmured, his voice soft as silk. "Please don't hold it against me." His tone was fragile, but the sharp nails of his thumb had dug deep into the back of my hand, cutting into my skin until I bled quietly into my sleeve.

It was only then that I truly understood what Damon felt for Maeve—and how deeply he hated me for being the outsider who took his place.

I just hadn't realized he hated me enough to strip away everything I had left.

After the men finally left with a parting threat, I gathered Gran into my arms and lifted her off the cold ground.

As I carried her through the shattered doorway, a sudden "boom" reverberated across the city.

High above the skyline, brilliant bursts of red and gold fireworks bloomed against the dark clouds. Splendid. Extravagant.

I lifted my face to the sky and realized that white flakes had begun to drift down through the dark. Snow was falling.

Back in late autumn, Maeve had held my hand as we walked through the park, her eyes bright. "When the first snow falls, Seth, I'm going to light up the whole city with fireworks for you," she had promised. "I want everyone in Ironford to know you're mine." Now, the snow was falling.

The fireworks were blinding. But the promises, and the woman who made them, no longer belonged to me. 3 The shock and exposure to the cold proved too much for Gran.

By midnight, her skin was burning with a dangerously high fever. Desperate, my hands trembling violently, I dialed Maeve's private line.

The line rang for an eternity before it finally picked up. "Maeve, please...

Gran is—" "Seth, don't tell me your grandmother is sick again just to get me to come over," she interrupted, her voice heavy with irritation and exhaustion. "This routine is getting old." The words I had prepared froze in my throat.

I couldn't push a single sound past the tightness in my chest. "Damon just finished his physical therapy," Maeve continued coldly. "He can't sleep without me nearby.

Try to show a little compassion for someone who is actually dying, Seth.

Stop throwing these childish, jealous tantrums." I lowered my head, staring at the floor as hot, bitter tears dripped onto the back of my hand.

I remembered the very first time I had stepped into her underground gym. I had been beaten so badly my face was unrecognizable, cowering in a dark corner behind the dumpster.

A pristine white handkerchief had appeared in front of my vision.

Maeve had stood there, backlit by the gym's harsh fluorescent lights, her voice softer than anything I had ever known. "Clean yourself up, kid." Later, she bought me medicine.

She visited Gran in our tiny rental. She showed me how to use my lean frame to generate power, how to strike with maximum efficiency.

The night I won my first professional bout, she had wrapped her arms around my waist in front of the cheering crowd, her warm breath resting against my collarbone. "From now on, Seth, you lean on me." I had believed her.

I had truly, foolishly believed her. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, walked out into the yard, and dragged out our old wooden handcart.

I layered it with every extra blanket we owned. Then I went back inside, gritted my teeth against the searing agony in my ribs, and hoisted Gran onto my back.

I didn't let out a single sound as I carried her out and laid her down on the cart, securing her with straps. The snow was thick on the pavement now.

Every step I took sank deep into the slush, my body lurching forward inch by torturous inch.

By the time I pushed the cart up the ramp of the city hospital, I had lost all sensation in my fingers and toes.

Nurses rushed out to grab the cart, and soon, the bright red light above the emergency operating room clicked on.

I collapsed against the sterile wall, staring at those double doors without blinking.

The snow melted off my thin coat, soaking through the fabric until I was shivering from the inside out. Hours later, the surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask.

His words felt like the first breath of air after drowning. "She's stable for now.

We managed to break the fever, but she needs to be admitted for followup care immediately." My voice was tight with anxiety. "How much will the immediate treatment cost?" "Around ten thousand dollars to cover the specialty meds and the ICU stay." I let out a shuddering breath.

Ten thousand. I had pushed myself to the brink over the last two years, taking fight after fight without rest. My savings account had just enough to cover it.

When I stepped into the room, Gran was awake, her eyes clouded with age and fatigue. "Seth... I'm so sorry, sweetheart.

I'm just a burden to you..." "Don't say that, Gran," I whispered, tears spilling over as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dark blue debit card, tucking it carefully under her thin pillow. "Use this for the hospital fees.

If... if I'm not around for a few days, you take care of yourself, okay?" The next morning, I walked down to the hospital pharmacy to collect her prescriptions.

As I turned the corner of the hallway, I ran straight into a sleek, customized wheelchair. "Seth!

What a coincidence," Damon said, offering a pleasant, polished smile. "I had a slight migraine last night, but Maeve insisted I come in for a full brain scan today." I pulled my lips into a tight line, opting not to say a word.

I turned on my heel and walked back toward Gran's room. When I pushed the door open, my heart dropped into a bottomless pit. The bed was empty.

Gran was lying on the cold linoleum floor. "Gran!" 4 Her hands were shaking hysterically.

Before I could reach her, she lifted a trembling hand and slapped her own cheek with a wet, sharp "crack".

I dropped to my knees, catching her wrists in my hands, my blood running cold. "Gran, what happened?!

What are you doing?!" Tears streamed down the deep wrinkles of her face. "Some men... three men in suits walked in just now..." she sobbed, her jaw trembling violently. "They took the card from under the pillow!

I tried to hide it, Seth... I tried... I'm useless! I couldn't stop them!" She beat her hands against her useless legs, consumed by grief and selfhatred.

A terrible noise stuck in my throat. My vision flickered with dark spots, the air completely rushing out of my lungs.

Gran gripped my forearm with surprising strength, her eyes burning with a sudden, wild fury. "It was them, Seth! The same men who smashed our home yesterday!" Damon.

His sinister smile down in the lobby flashed through my mind like a stroke of lightning. It was him. I stood up like a man possessed and bolted out of the room.

I spotted the wheelchair near the main glass entrance. "Damon!" I lunged forward, my eyes bloodshot, extending a trembling hand. "Give it back!

Give me the card!" Damon tilted his head, his expression innocent and confused. "Seth? What are you talking about?

I don't understand." "Stop playing games!" I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, falling to my knees right there in the marble lobby, weeping openly. "Do whatever you want to me!

I don't care about Maeve anymore—you can have her! Just give me the money back! Please, I'm begging you!

I just need the money for my grandmother!" Damon stared down at me for a long beat.

Slowly, his eyes welled with tears, and his body began to tremble as if in terror. "Seth... please, you're scaring me..." Before I could process his words, a violent force slammed into my side, throwing me off the wheelchair and crashing onto the hard floor.

Maeve stood over me, her hand holding her wrist, her eyes blazing with fury. "You really are hopeless, aren't you?" she spat, her voice laced with disgust. "Harassing Damon in public?

I guess I went too easy on you in the ring yesterday!" I let out a broken, wheezing laugh that tore through my damaged chest.

I looked up at her, my eyes hollow. "I just want him to give back what he stole." Maeve’s brows pulled together into a tight, angry line. "You lost your money?" "If your money is gone, go earn it back!

What right do you have to run over here and act like a wild animal in front of Damon?" I slapped her reaching hand away, breaking down completely. "There's no time!

I don't have time to earn it back!" Maeve’s patience snapped.

She stepped forward and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face. "SNAP." "What do you mean, no time?!" she yelled. "I've spoiled you for too long, Seth!

The laziness in your blood is finally showing! You really are nothing more than street trash that can't be pulled out of the gutter!" Street trash.

When she first met me, she used to call me wild grass—resilient, unbreakable, uniquely beautiful in my survival. She said that was what drew her to me. Now, I was just trash.

My throat worked as I forced down a mouthful of metallic warmth.

Maeve turned away, taking hold of Damon's wheelchair handles. "I am so thoroughly disappointed in you, Seth." I lay paralyzed on the cold tile, but I didn't miss the cruel, triumphant flash in Damon's eyes as she wheeled him away.

And there, slipping slightly out of the cuff of his jacket, was the familiar dark blue corner of my debit card. "Give it back!" I roared, throwing my body forward to tackle him— A heavy leather boot kicked me square in the chest.

Before I could rise, two large security guards pinned my arms behind my back, pressing my face hard against the lobby floor. "Seth, that's enough!" Maeve shouted over her shoulder without stopping.

The pain in my ribs exploded into a terrifying, blinding agony. Black dots swarmed across my field of vision, multiplying rapidly.

Suddenly, a wave of commotion burst out near the elevators behind us.

Nurses were sprinting toward the rear exit, their voices elevated and sharp with panic. "Someone just jumped from the sixth floor of the inpatient building!

Dead on impact!" "Isn't that the old woman admitted last night?

The one whose savings got stolen?" The voices drifted away, sounding muffled and distant, as if coming from under deep water.

All that remained was the harsh, ragged sound of my own failing lungs. I couldn't hold it back any longer.

A dark, thick wave of blood erupted from my throat, splashing across the white tiles beneath my face. As my consciousness faded, I felt hands hauling my limp body off the ground.

Voices hovered above me. "Take him out the back." "The boss said his life belongs to the Vault now." Slowly, the noise faded, and I sank into absolute, silent darkness. ...

In the hospital's underground parking garage, Maeve carefully lifted Damon out of his wheelchair, helping him settle into the leather backseat of her sedan.

Just as she straightened up, a darksuited assistant sprinted toward her, leaning in to whisper a few hurried sentences into her ear.

In an instant, Maeve’s face drained of all color.