The last strike for love

The rain hit the city like a warningsharp, cold, relentless. Night swallowed the streets, and neon lights flickered across the puddles like broken signals from another world. People hurried past, unaware of the man limping through the alley, bleeding from a wound he didn’t remember getting. Jaxon Cross could barely see. His left eye was swelling shut, and every breath scraped like fire through cracked ribs. He pressed one hand against the brick wall to steady himself, but the city kept spinning. Blood dripped down his jawline, thick and warm, mixing with rainwater as he staggered forward. Behind him, far in the distance, men shouted. The Syndicate was still hunting. Jaxon tasted iron in his mouth. He had run before but never like this. Never from Viktor Kale. Never after refusing a kill order. He managed two more steps before his knees buckled. Jaxon collapsed to the ground, palms slapping into the wet gravel. The sting barely registered over the deeper pain of betrayal, the burn of guilt, and the hollow pit in his chest where fear tried to settle. He had fought hundreds of battles. He had survived cages, rings, underground arenas lit with roaring crowds and dripping chains. But tonight wasn’t a fight. Tonight was punishment. Jaxon forced himself upright again. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he had to keep moving. If Viktor’s men found him, they wouldn’t take him back alive. Viktor liked vengeance slow. He’d make Jaxon watch every piece of his own destruction. A shadow shifted at the end of the alley. Jaxon froze instinctively, every muscle tensing. His vision blurred, but he recognized the shapetall, lean, confident. A Syndicate scout. One of Viktor’s best trackers. Jaxon cursed under his breath. He wasn’t ready. He could barely breathe, much less fight. But fight he must. Footsteps grew closer. The man stepped into the open, calling out into the darkness. “Cross! Boss said he wants you alive. Don’t make this harder.” Jaxon pushed up to his feet. Alive? No. That was a lie. Viktor wanted him humbled first. Broken. Reminded of who owned him. The tracker spotted him fully. A cruel smirk stretched across his face. “There you are. You look like shit.” Jaxon didn’t speak. He couldn’t waste the breath. He dropped into a stanceweak, uneven, but still a fighter’s stance. His heart roared against his ribs as adrenaline fought through exhaustion. The man drew a metal baton, twirling it casually. “Boss wants you back in the ring. On your knees. Begging. Should’ve just followed orders, Cross.” Jaxon’s mind flashed. The last fight. The opponent Victor asked him to kill. A kidbarely twenty, terrified, shaking in his corner. Jaxon refused. No one deserved to die in the arena. The tracker lunged. Jaxon tried to dodge, but pain shot up his side and slowed him a fraction too long. The baton cracked against his shoulder. He fell back, absorbing the blow with a grunt. The next strike came fast, aimed at his jaw. Instinct took over. Jaxon blocked with his forearm, twisted, and slammed his elbow into the attacker’s throat. The man gagged, staggered, then swung wildly. Jaxon ducked under the blow and drove a fist into the man’s ribsonce, twiceuntil he felt the air rush out of him. The tracker dropped to his knees. Jaxon grabbed the man’s jacket, pulling him close enough to whisper through ragged breaths: “I don’t belong to him.” Then he drove a final punch to the jaw, sending the man unconscious to the ground. Silence returned, broken only by the rain. Jaxon stood there, trembling. That short fight had cost him more energy than he had to spare. His vision dimmed. He leaned against the wall and forced himself onward. He needed safety. He needed shelter. He needed… something. The alley opened onto a quiet side street. Across it stood a small community cliniclights still on, though it was near midnight. The sign flickered above the door: Rivers Free Health Center. Jaxon hesitated. Not out of distrustout of worry. Anyone who helped him would be in danger. Viktor’s reach was long; his vengeance was cruel. But his legs gave out a second time, and he collapsed onto the clinic steps. The door swung open. “Hey! Oh my Godsir, can you hear me?” The voice was soft but urgent. A woman knelt beside him, hands already checking vitals, eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. Long dark hair was tied back in a messy bun, her scrubs stained with hours of work. She looked too gentle for a city like this. Jaxon blinked. He couldn’t make out her face clearly, but he felt the warmth in her toucheven though his skin was cold and soaked. “Letlet me get you inside,” she said, motioning for help that wasn’t there. Midnight shift. She was alone. “No… police,” Jaxon rasped. She frowned. “You need help.” “No police.” The woman studied him, conflicted. Something about the desperation in his voice convinced her. “Okay. No police,” she whispered. “Just… try not to die on my floor.” She hooked an arm under his and half-dragged, half-carried him inside. The clinic smelled of antiseptic, old books, and lavenderan odd combination, comforting in an unexpected way. She guided him onto a narrow examination bed. He groaned as his body met the mattress. “My name is Lena,” she said softly. “Don’t talk if it hurts. I’m going to check for internal injuries.” Jaxon watched her through half-lidded eyes as she moved with quiet speedhands steady, movements precise. She cleaned the blood from his face, pressed warm gauze to the wounds, taped cracked ribs, and stitched a cut along his brow with careful fingers. Most people flinched from his scars. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve had military training,” she murmured, examining the pattern of bruises and old wounds. “Special ops… or underground fighting.” Jaxon remained silent. She glanced at him. “I’m not judging. I’m trying to understand how you’re still breathing.” He could see exhaustion under her eyesbut also strength. She had seen broken men before. She had saved lives in places far worse than this clinic. She didn’t look scared of him. She didn’t look intimidated. For some reason, that made Jaxon feel more exposed than the wounds. After an hour of careful work, she stepped back and exhaled. “You should rest here tonight,” she said. “You won’t make it far in this condition.” Jaxon opened his mouth to protest, but the look she gave him shut him up. It was a look that said she’d already decided. A healer’s look. A fighter’s look. Lena placed a blanket over him and dimmed the lights. Jaxon’s eyelids grew heavy, his strength fading. But right before sleep claimed him, he heard her voice againquieter now, thoughtful. “You look like a man running from something,” she said. “And I have the feeling whatever it is… it’s coming.” Jaxon wanted to warn her. Wanted to tell her to run far away from him. Wanted to say her kindness might cost her everything. But his eyes closed before he could speak. Sleep dragged him underdark, heavy, relentless. Outside, a car rolled slowly past the clinic. Inside it, a Syndicate scout stared at the lighted windows with icy focus. They had found him again. And this time, Viktor planned to strike where it would hurt most.