“Agreed,” Em says. “We don’t want to inherit this cesspool, but if we’re stepping in to burn it down, we need to know what we’re standing on.”
These hits are working in our favor, but that doesn’t make them welcome. Because if someone else is playing the same game we are, we need to know who they are, what they want, and how the hell they’re so precise.
And most of all, we need to know where Ronan fits into it, because I have a feeling, he’s closer to the flame than either of us realize.
We shove through the doors of The Underground, and the air slams into us like a solid wall—sweat, blood, stale adrenaline, and a tension that clings to the skin like smoke. The moment we step inside, people start shifting out of our path, clearing space without even realizing they’re doing it. I catch more than a fewwide eyes and uneasy glances. They’re not sure if I’m Ronan or not—and they’re smart enough not to ask.
Ronan, me, or Emerson—doesn’t matter which of us you’re looking at—we all know how to hit hard and leave marks that don’t fade.
As we move deeper into the place, we ask around about Ronan’s fight. Unsurprisingly, he won. Fast, brutal, efficient—just like always. But what raises every red flag I have is how quickly he vanished afterward. Didn’t hang around to cool off or bother with a drink.
The guy working the back edges closer, his eyes flicking around like he’s debating whether opening his mouth is a bad idea. When he finally speaks, he tells us Ronan had been asking questions—too many of them. About Cupcake. How her fights get booked. Who sets them up. Whether anyone knows her real name. Where she goes between matches, and where she came from before showing up here.
We press him. “And? Do you know?”
But they don’t give us anything we didn’t already expect. No real name. No phone number. No address. She was the one who reached out—that’s all they know. No trail to follow. No paper left behind. Just a voice out of the dark asking for a fight, then vanishing again until the next one.
She’s a ghost.
But Ronan? He doesn’t chase shadows for nothing. If he’s asking that many questions, it means he’s found something—orthinks he has. And now that he’s gone radio silent, my gut says he followed whatever trail he sniffed out.
The thing is, Ronan doesn’t follow people. He’s not the type to waste his time, especially not on women. I’ve seen him sidestep more advances than I can count, shutting them down with that cold, detached stare that makes it clear he’s not interested. Hell, even when we were younger, he’d avoid the clingy ones like they carried the plague. But this girl? She’s different. She’s the only one I’ve ever seen him circle back to—not someone he’s already shared space with, but one he clearly wants to. And for Ronan, wanting to be that close to anyone is rare enough to set off alarm bells.
Chapter Ten
Berkley
By now, Stanley Picklemire’s name is plastered across every major news outlet like some sensational headline meant to shock suburban America into locking their doors. His picture—smug and polished in a dated press photo—flickers across TV screens, phone notifications, scrolling banners at the bottom of news channels. “Local businessman perishes in tragic fire,” they say. “Investigators search for cause.” No one dares to call it what it really is.
Retribution.
I’m long gone from the scene, already across town, the smoke miles behind me and fading into the night. The city moves on like it always does—buzzing, oblivious. Stanley’s businesses will eventually draw too much attention, but not yet. Maybe it’s the late hour or the fact that they’re so sterile on the outside—all glass walls and sleek metal. Clean. Corporate. Unassuming. No one’s traipsing around the AutoHalo lots looking for answers. Not the public, not the press.
No one but me.
The first two locations were taken care of last night, hidden beneath the cover of darkness. Carefully. Quietly. I scoped them out earlier, then returned when the streets wereempty, moving like a ghost through the shadows. It took longer than I wanted—being a one-woman operation means every step rests on my shoulders—but precision matters. I don’t do this for spectacle. I don’t crave chaos. I do it for justice. These buildings need to fall the right way—collapsing inward, like diseased lungs finally giving out—without taking innocent lives down with them.
The charges are hidden—tucked behind service panels, nestled beneath insulation, masked by the natural mess of forgotten spaces. Everything is timed. Everything is ready. All that’s left is this last location.
I crouch behind the display tower of electric sedans, sliding a narrow strip of det cord into place along the structural seam. My hands move fast, practiced, sure. But even now, even after everything I’ve done, there’s a strange calm that moves through me. A stillness. It’s not peace—I haven’t felt that in years—but it’s close. There are moments in the quiet before destruction, where I almost feel like the girl I used to be.
Then the darkness catches up.
It always does.
It creeps in from the edges of my thoughts, coiling along my spine like smoke. In those moments, I’m not the girl I used to be. I’m something else entirely—something forged from pain and honed by silence. I live for the fire now. For the breathless seconds right before everything gives way and burns.
I’m finishing the last connection when it happens. A subtle shift. A prickling heat that skates across the back of my neck like an icy blade.
Tingles.
They start on my arms, soft and nearly ignorable, like brushing past static. But then they intensify—settling into the base of my spine, crawling beneath my skin with slow insistence. Not panic. Not quite.
Awareness.
The air changes—heavier, denser. That quiet warning settles in, the kind that says you’re being watched. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I can feel it, and that’s enough.
My fingers still. The surrounding shadows grow deeper, denser. I exhale slowly, adjusting my stance, letting instinct take over.