Chapter 11

**ETHAN**

Once again, I found myself in the depths of the underground ring. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the worn-out floor. The pungent scent of sweat and cheap cologne hung heavily in the air, mixing with the sound of heavy breathing and the sharp snap of leather straps being tightened. It was a familiar scene, as if I had never left.

The crowd pressed against the ropes, their eager faces illuminated by the flickering lights overhead. The anticipation was palpable, the air electric with excitement. As I made my way to the center of the ring, I couldn't help but glance around, taking in the diverse faces in the crowd. Their eyes were fixed on the ring, filled with anticipation and curiosity.

Tonight, my opponent was none other than Alex, my closest rival during my fighting years. His expression was one of cool confidence, knowing that he had sparred with me countless times before. We had studied each other's moves, strengths, and weaknesses. We were like two well-matched puzzle pieces, constantly trying to outsmart one another.

As the bell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the air, I nodded in acknowledgment to Alex. We met in the center of the ring, circling each other cautiously, like predators in the wild. The crowd fell into a hushed silence, their collective breath mingling with ours. I could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on me, the intensity of their gaze.

But I had to block out the distractions. I had to focus on the present moment, the here and now. This was the only way to succeed. The thrill of the fight coursed through my veins, igniting a fire within me. It was the distraction I needed, a way to escape from the other things weighing on my mind. All that mattered was the battle ahead.


Our fight was brutal, intense. Every punch and kick was calculated, every move executed with precision. We were well-matched, and the outcome was anyone's guess. The crowd roared their approval with every exchange, their shouts and cheers filling the air. But it was in those brief moments of silence, when we were locked in a stalemate, that I could feel the tension building.

The match went on, round after round. Each of us pushing ourselves to the limit, searching for an opening, a weakness to exploit. And then, in the final round, it happened. I landed a blow that sent Alex staggering back against the ropes. The crowd exploded in cheers, and for a moment, I was transported to a different world; a world I had known too well. But then reality set in. I knew that Alex was too skilled, too experienced to go down so easily. As he regained his footing, I felt a renewed sense of determination surge through me. We traded blows once more, faster and fiercer than ever before. The ring seemed to shrink around us, the world beyond the ropes fading into the background. And then, in a blur of movement, Alex landed a blow that sent me reeling. My vision swam, and I felt the impact of the strike ripple through my entire body; I knew my time in the ring had come to an end today.

Regaining my footing, I extended my hand towards Alex, the sweat glistening on my palm. Grasping my hand firmly, he gave it a vigorous shake, the sound of our palms meeting echoing in the air. "Good fight, man," he murmured, the scent of adrenaline thick in the arena. "You can hardly tell you've been out of the racket for a while."

I lifted the corner of my swelling lip in a smirk, feeling the warmth of satisfaction spread through me. "Thanks, Alex. It's good to be back, even if it's just occasionally. It's good to feel alive again." Alex clapped me on the back, the impact reverberating through my body, as the crowd gradually dispersed, their lively chatter filling the air, creating a symphony of voices.

**NICOLE**

The next morning, as I stared into the mirror, my bloodshot eyes widened in disbelief. My appearance was a ghastly sight. I looked like a discarded piece of trash on the sidewalk, my face bloated and swollen from a sleepless night. The mirror revealed the raw, redness of my nose, constantly dripping and emitting a nasal whine when I muttered, “Good Lord,” the sound echoing in the empty room. I was a pitiful sight, one that made me question how much more I could endure before I could let go of this man.

Dragging my exhausted body into the dimly lit kitchen, I toyed with the idea of calling in sick. The sound of my voice, raspy and weak, could easily convince them that I was on the verge of death, deserving of a day off, perhaps even a year. In a twisted sense, I wasn't lying - I was sick, just not in the way they imagined.

Thirty agonizing minutes passed, my mind locked in a battle of indecision. Finally, I muttered, "Do it already," and reluctantly reached for the phone, dialing the number for the bureau.

However, as the minutes ticked by during my impromptu morning off, boredom consumed me. Restlessness coursed through my veins, causing me to pace aimlessly in the kitchen, resembling Sherlock Holmes in the midst of solving a perplexing case. Back and forth, back and forth, I went, creating a worn-out path on the linoleum floor. After a few more minutes of my absurd conduct, I surrendered and settled down at the table with a steaming cup of coffee and a juicy orange. I began to jot down my plans for the day on a notepad, my pen scrawling across the paper, I couldn't help but let out a derisive snort as I stared at the doodled words before me, a reminder of the aimless state I found myself in.

*Get over Ethan*.

I shook my head, the frustration evident in my expression, as if it were as simple as that.

As I took a sip from my third cup of steaming coffee for the morning, the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Thurston sauntered into the room, his paws silently padding against the tiled floor. He made a beeline for his empty food bowl, his hungry eyes glaring at me in accusation. With an indignant meow, he vocalized his discontent, claiming that I had starved him. I had discovered Thurston one evening beneath the cabin's porch, and fate had led me to adopt him as my pet.

Chuckling, I rose from my chair and made my way to the bottom cabinet where I stored his food and scooped a handful of dry morsels, the crunching sound filling the air. As I emptied them into his bowl, Thurston shot me a disdainful look, clearly dissatisfied with my choice of breakfast for him, then stalked out of the room, his tail swishing with annoyance.

"Fine, be that way, you picky little shit," I muttered, not in the mood for his finicky behavior.

Weariness settled in as the morning progressed. I had made a quick trip to the hardware store, the scent of freshly cut wood and varnish lingering in my nostrils. There, I had acquired wallpaper, paste, and brushes to transform the kitchen walls of the cabin. Now, the room was in chaos, resembling a disaster zone. Jagged strips and chunks of paper littered the floor, scattered like the aftermath of an explosion.

I surveyed the mess, realizing that my vigorous stripping and scraping of the walls had served as an outlet for my pain over Ethan. With pursed lips, I blew at a stray strand of hair that had come loose from my hastily braided hairdo that morning. Just then, Thurston poked his head into the doorway, his curiosity piqued by the commotion. Taking one look at the disarray, he darted into the room, treating the debris like a soccer field, batting it around with enthusiasm.

As I swiftly sprinted toward the broom, my eyes scanned the floor for scattered pieces of paper, snatching them up as I went. The sound of crumpled paper filled the air as I hurriedly gathered them before they could be scattered any further than the confines of the kitchen. With one hand firmly gripping the broom, I forcefully pushed the scraps I held in the other into the waiting trashcan, the rustling sound echoing through the room.

Afterward, I embarked on a dash around the room, sweeping up the remaining debris. The bristles of the broom whispered against the floor as I swiftly moved, determined to restore order. Finally, I managed to gather everything, the sound of the broom scraping against the floor in a hurried tempo.

As I focused on shoving the last remnants of the mess into the waiting trashcan, the distant sound of my name being called from the other room reached my ears. Recognizing the familiar voice, I scolded Thurston, my tone laced with frustration, instructing him to leave the trash alone. Then, leaving the task unfinished, I made my way towards the living room, my footsteps echoing softly against the floor.

In the middle of the room, Kindle White, my best friend and a skilled fingerprint analyst for the bureau, stood waiting. As I entered through the doorway, her gaze swept over me, assessing the disheveled state I was in. "Lord Nicole, what the hell have you been doing?" she exclaimed, her voice filled with a mixture of astonishment and concern.