Slow footsteps approached, and from the shadows, emerged a bald, toned man with a square beard. He wore athletic attire: a compression shirt and skinny joggers. He cracked his fingers and smiled.

  “Impressive,” he said with a hard accent. “You survived four men.”

  I sighed. Another roadblock. I couldn’t afford to be stuck in these. I had to get straight to the point.

  “You want to fight?”

  He shook his head and extended his hand, offering a handshake. “Marco. My name.”

  Confused, I glanced at his hand and back to him. I didn’t bother moving my hand. I wasn’t going to shake hands with someone in my way.

  “Sylvia…” I said, giving a false name.

  “Sylvia?” He said with an impressed look. “Beautiful name.” He walked past me and singled me out to follow. “Come, I show.”

  Part of me wanted to leave and keep looking for Roger. Another part, however, wanted me to follow Marco. He didn’t seem intimidating. He was short for a man, but taller than me. His muscles did pop out of his long–sleeved compression shirt, but that didn’t mean anything in terms of a fight.

  “Come, come.” He repeated.

  We moved down the hall and up a narrow stairwell into a small room. A single yellow bulb buzzed overhead, casting shadows along the concrete walls. A table sat against one side with a duffel bag resting beneath it.

  “You fight?” He asked, mimicking throwing punches.

  I nodded in silence.

  “Good, good.” He pointed to himself. “I… professionally trained. You fight four men at once. Very good. I fight you.”

  What choice did I have? I had to entertain him.

  He got low in his stance. One fist pointed down, while the rear hand guarded his face. I had no choice but to take a stance of my own.

  The moment I stepped forward, he moved.

  He wasn’t fast, but precise.

  My first strike met nothing but air. He shifted and clipped my ribs with a short hook. A sharp pain spiked in that area. I stumbled back.

  “Too much force,” he said calmly.

  I lunged again. He redirected by striking and sweeping my leg. I hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of me. He didn’t press. He simply waited.

  I pushed myself up. Greg’s crew was sloppy, angry, and desperate. Marco was none of that. There was proper intention in every move.

  We exchanged blows again. I barely landed one on his jaw. He smiled wider.

  “Better.”

  Then he stepped in close.

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  Steel flashed.

  A knife slid into his hand as if it had always been there. He didn’t rush or threaten. He adjusted his grip.

  “Now,” Marco said softly, eyes locked on mine, “we see you fight good.”

  The moment the knife came out, the tone of the room shifted.

  Marco didn’t rush me. He let the threat exist, let my eyes lock onto the blade.

  I moved first, which was a bad idea.

  He punished me immediately and forced me back. My advantages faded fast. Speed meant nothing when he controlled distance. Strength meant nothing when every strike was anticipated.

  A shallow cut burned across my arm. Not deep, which felt intentional.

  “Slow,” he said, pointing the blade at me. “You panic.”

  I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. Pain sharpened my focus instead of breaking it. I stopped trying to win. Started trying to survive.

  Every time I tried to create space, Marco erased it. When I wanted to rush him, he folded me into the wall or the floor. The room felt smaller with every breath I took.

  The knife appeared somewhere in the middle of it. I couldn’t tell where he’d cut me, only that something warm was running and my strength was slipping faster than I expected.

  That’s when we went down hard.

  The ground controlled us. It wasn’t about technique anymore, just leverage and weight. Marco pressed into me, forearm heavy, knee digging in. I fought like an animal, clawing for anything that gave me even an inch.

  “Down.”

  I didn’t bother listening to his half–baked words.

  The knife became the center of everything. It scraped against the floor, against skin. Neither of us fully had it, and that made it worse. Every movement felt desperate and sloppy.

  My lungs burned. My arms shook.

  Then he overcommitted.

  I twisted, rolled, and dragged us sideways. I was in pain. It was sharp and flared into my fingers. I persevered and wrapped my fingers around the knife’s handle.

  His weight was no longer on me. I was free with the knife in my hands. He tried to get up quickly, but before he stood—

  “Agh!”

  —I slashed his throat.

  A wet, choking gasp tore out of him as he stumbled, hands on his throat. Blood pushed between his fingers.

  My stomach dropped.

  “No—no—no—no—” The knife slipped from my hand and clattered across the concrete. I dropped to my knees in front of him. “I didn’t mean to—”

  I pressed both hands to his neck. The warmth soaked into my palms and ran down my wrists. My fingers couldn’t find where to press. There was too much blood beneath my hands.

  “Stay with me,” I said desperately, pushing harder. “Please… please…”

  Marco slid down the wall despite her effort. His breathing was ragged. Every inhale sounded like it was tearing him apart from the inside.

  I tried to adjust my grip. Blood spilled out anyway. My hands shook so badly I could barely keep pressure.

  “I didn’t want to kill you,” I cried. “I swear—I just wanted it to stop. I just—”

  His eyes locked onto mine. They were wide-eyed and in panic. He tried to speak, but only a thick, choking sound came out. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth when he exhaled.

  “Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking completely. “Live. Live.”

  I pressed harder until my arms burned, until my fingers ached. The blood kept coming. It soaked into my sleeves, creating a pool on the ground.

  His breathing slowed. Then it stopped.

  I froze.

  For a long moment, I didn’t move. I kept my hands there, pressing against torn flesh that no longer fought back.

  “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”

  My hands slipped slightly, leaving red streaks across his skin.

  My breath came apart in sharp, ugly gasps. My chest hurts. My throat closed. I bent forward and gagged, barely managing not to throw up.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  The room smelled like blood and metal. The silence pressed in around me.

  I didn’t mean to kill anyone.

  I didn’t want to kill anyone.

  And now I couldn’t take it back.