ONE

Leora

He was dead.

Good .

A deep, dark part of me wished I had been the one to end Adriano, not some faceless thug in prison. The main reason I had accepted the Resident Psychologist position at the Toronto South Detention Centre instead of the northern one was him; he was locked up there. The irony of it was biting, cruel almost.

As I stared at the email from my lawyer confirming his death, a swirl of relief and regret churned inside me. This should have been good news—freedom from a past that haunted me. Yet, there lingered a gnawing desire, a primal wish that I had been the one to kill him. Wasn't that how all women felt about their exes?

Maybe not .

My train of thought was interrupted by the buzz of my phone. I always kept it silent, a habit ingrained during my time with Adriano. He despised hearing it ring at night. Looking back, his rage over such trivial things should have been a red flag.

I watched my phone, vibrating in my hand, with ‘Mom' flashing on the screen. Staring, frozen, I let it buzz through until it slipped into voicemail.

???

An hour later, I walked into my gym and greeted the coach with a nod before diving into my warm-up routine. It was a regular intermediate kickboxing class, one I had been attending for the past year.

Was I getting any better?

Probably.

Did I actively use MMA to release my pent-up rage?

Absolutely.

It wasn't just a hobby; it was a necessity, a vital release. The ghost of Adriano clung to me, a relentless shadow darkening every moment of peace I might find. The weight on my chest felt unshakable.This weight, this ever-present pressure on my chest, seemed immovable.

So, I embraced the brutal rhythm of MMA. There was a twisted irony in it. I'd felt the sting of blows before, the memories lost to the fog of trauma-induced amnesia.

What a fucking blessing!

My body knew, even if my mind refused to remember. Each strike I landed reverberated back to me, echoing off the gym walls. Every punch thrown felt like justice, a declaration of strength I had once believed stripped from me.

I didn't linger after class; I made a beeline for the exit, eager to leave the sweat and exertion behind. The subway ride home was as nondescript as any other, but once I emerged, a spontaneous decision steered me off my usual path. I needed a smoke—a quick detour to the convenience store seemed harmless enough.

There are moments where your life takes a turn. When the monotonous, fluid rhythm of your days morphs into something rigid and eventually breaks, leaving you to deal with the scatter.

I didn't realize it then, but that detour was about to cost me.

As I neared the store, the air grew tense. From the dark alley beside the store, voices clashed—a sharp, fraught exchange that sliced through the night's calm.

"Don't fucking move," came a man's frustrated voice.

"I'm not moving, but are you sure you want to kill me?" another man replied, his voice strained and weary. A chill ran through my veins.

It was 11:30 PM in a shady part of Toronto, and the night was darker than usual. Despite being accustomed to hearing about violence, encountering it firsthand in this grim alley still sent a shiver through me. As I cautiously peered around the corner, two men stood menacingly over a dark-haired man sprawled on the ground, clutching his stomach. The attackers, their backs to me, were caught up in a heated interrogation.

"Who sent you?" the one with blonde hair demanded.

"You tell me. I'm not the one responsible for random security hacks in the financial district," the injured man said.

"He's a fucking narc. I told you!" his companion with a buzz cut shouted.

I was about to dial 911 when my phone vibrated with an incoming message.

Startled, I looked up just in time to see the two men turning their gaze towards me. Dropping my gym bag to the side, I braced myself, ready for what might come next. Boxing had taught me well—I knew how to throw a punch: straight, uppercut, shuffle, hook. With my hands still wrapped from class, I felt oddly prepared and grateful for it.

As the blond man advanced towards me, adrenaline surged. I picked up my pace, leaped against the wall to gain height over the six-foot assailant, and delivered a forceful kick right to his jaw. The impact sent his knife skittering away across the alley.

The news about Adriano had been gnawing at me. Although part of me felt justice had been served, another part was frustrated—deeply frustrated. I hadn't been the one to end his torment on me. Tonight, as I stood in this alley, every nerve in my body was primed, every muscle coiled. I really needed to kick someone's ass today. It was more than self-defense; it was a necessary catharsis that no amount of punching bags or controlled sparring could ever provide.

"This bitch," the buzz cut hissed, his voice echoing off the grimy alley walls.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the injured dark-haired man smirking, even as he clutched at a wound I couldn't quite see. Driven by adrenaline, I delivered a swift uppercut followed by a hook, then shuffled to his leading side to land a solid punch right in his gut. He was so unprepared—clearly not a boxer—that he didn't even attempt to block.

As I was about to throw another punch, Blondie grabbed my braided hair and yanked me back toward him. Reacting instinctively, I spun around, pivoting off the pull, and grabbed him by the neck, delivering a sloppy but effective knee to his nose. I glanced over, expecting Buzz Cut to jump into the fray, but found him on the ground, the dark-haired man now surprisingly upright and active.

"I got this," he declared, hurling a knife so close it nearly grazed me, likely finding its mark in Blondie.

Within seconds, the alley was empty except for us, Blondie and Buzz Cut stumbling away with a trail of curses. My hands shook with the intensity of the encounter. My nerves shot. The dark-haired man let out a chuckle, his deep voice annoyingly calm in the aftermath.

He's laughing?

"Excuse me? I think you owe me an explanation. And a thank you wouldn't hurt," I scoffed, my frustration palpable.

He approached slowly, closing the distance until he towered over me. His hands gently gripped my shoulders, nudging me into the streetlight. He brushed his knuckles softly against my cheek, his voice low and steady, "They cut you."

The light hit his face just right, illuminating the powerful lines of his jaw shadowed by the light stubble. His tanned skin caught the yellow glow of the streetlight, his dark eyes shimmering with a golden intensity. He was, unexpectedly, the most striking man I'd ever seen .

It took a moment for his words to register. Instinctively, my hands flew to my cheek, coming away with traces of blood. Nothing, though, compared to the dark-haired man's hands, soaked through with it.

"Did you get stabbed?" I asked, my voice shaky from the adrenaline still coursing through me.

He glanced nonchalantly at his belly. His black shirt underneath his jacket was drenched and shining with slick blood. "I guess, yeah."

"Do you live nearby?" he asked, scanning the intersection.

"Y-yes," I managed, my reply faltering.

"Good. We're going to your place."

"Wait, what?" The words tumbled out before I could think.

"Don't you want to finish saving me? I thought that's why you were flying around kicking ass."

His words hung in the air, laced with a half-mocking challenge. For a moment, I hesitated, torn. Was I really considering taking a bloodied stranger to my home? The thought spun around in my mind, wrestling with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. How irresponsible could I be in a single night? Yet, there he stood, smirking as if he'd already known I'd say yes, his presence a strange and sudden weight in my life. The decision teetered on the edge of recklessness. Could I walk away?

My hesitant laugh broke through, betraying my nerves, yet my voice was steady as I replied, "Sure, damsel. Let's get you patched up."

There was a flicker of amusement, perhaps surprise, in his eyes at my agreement. He nodded, gesturing for me to take the lead, and followed me as we made our way to my apartment.