Reapers MC — Bloodline

Raven The air in the warehouse tastes like sweat, blood, cheap beer and fear. It sticks to my skin like a second skin, thick and warm, and I breathe it in deep. This is home. Not the shithole apartment I crash in, not the quiet residential side streets where nobody knows my name or the scars hidden under my jacket. Right here, under the strobing, flickering fluorescent lights strung above the steel fight cage, where the crowd roars so loud the metal floor shakes under my scuffed combat boots, I’m exactly where I belong. They chant it already, thumping their fists hard against the cold metal railings lining the cage perimeter. Raven. Raven. Raven. The rhythm rolls over me, rough and familiar, a beat I’ve matched for months. I stand in the shadowed gap between the cage frame and the cinder block wall at the edge of the ring, pulling the soft black fabric mask down over my face — just enough to cover my forehead, cheekbones and the old faint scar slicing across my left eyebrow, leaving my mouth and jaw free. They don’t need to know the girl beneath the mask, the name printed on my birth certificate, the life I’ve spent nineteen years building in the cracks of society. They only need to know what I do once the cage door clicks shut behind me. My opponent is already pacing inside the wire mesh, rolling his broad shoulders, cracking his knuckles against his palm. Six and a half feet of solid bulk and corded muscle, neck thick as an oak tree trunk, every knuckle scarred, split and crusted with old dried blood from previous matches. They call him Goliath. f*****g original. He’s won his last seven underground fights by knockout, no opponent has managed to last more than four minutes against him, let alone go the full distance. Until tonight. The referee steps between us once I step over the cage threshold, voice raised to cut through the crowd’s steady chant. “No eye gouging, no biting, no hidden weapons. Fight until one goes down unconscious or taps out. Rules clear?” I don’t answer, don’t waste breath on empty confirmation. I just hold his gaze, expression flat, waiting for him to step back. He smirks, amused, like I’m some lost little girl who wandered in from the pouring rain outside by mistake, completely out of my depth. “Cute,” Goliath rumbles, his voice deep enough to vibrate through the cage floor. “Send you home crying, little bird.” “Try it,” I say, my voice low and flat, no trace of fear. He barks a loud laugh, and the crowd roars louder in response. The referee steps fully back, raising one arm to signal the start of the match. The fight begins. He comes at me fast, far faster than someone his size has any right to move, heavy right hook swinging, built to crush bone and drop me in one hit. I don’t block — I don’t need to. I’ve snuck in to watch him fight twice before, memorised every tiny, unconscious tell he gives away before every strike. I spot it instantly: his left shoulder dips a fraction of an inch before he throws the right hook. I see the shift and I’m already moving, sliding sideways in one fluid motion, the air rushing past my ear as his fist misses my jaw by barely an inch. He staggers forward, off‑balance for half a second, his weight tipping onto his front foot. That’s all I need. I step in tight, driving a hard elbow twice into his exposed ribs — once, twice — and I feel the faint, sharp give of cartilage beneath the impact. He grunts in pain, swinging wildly back at me blindly. I duck low under his flailing arm, snap my grip around his thick wrist, twist hard to hyperextend his elbow, then drive my knee solidly into his soft stomach. He folds with a guttural roar, dropping heavily to one knee on the worn mat. The crowd is screaming now, deafening, the chant of my fight name echoing off every warehouse wall. Raven. Raven. Raven. He shoves himself back up to his feet seconds later, face flushed red and glistening with sweat, eyes wild with unfiltered rage. Angry makes people stupid, makes them throw every careful tactic out the window to charge recklessly. He surges forward, head down, arms flailing wide with no proper guard. I see the opening before he even finishes moving: all his weight shifted forward, heel lifted on his right foot, no protection for his chest or legs. I step in fast, plant my shoulder firm against his sternum, hook my ankle behind his leading leg and yank it out from under him. He hits the mat hard enough to rattle the entire cage frame. Before he can scramble to push himself back up, I’m already knelt over him, forearm pressed steady, unyielding across his throat, cutting off his air supply without risking permanent damage. He thrashes beneath me, huge hands scrabbling at my arm and wrist to pry me off, but I hold my position, my weight anchored to keep him pinned. His face turns bright red then deep purple as the seconds tick by. “Tap,” I say, quiet enough only he can hear over the fading roar of the crowd. “Or I make you pass out. Your call.” He slaps his palm hard against the mat three times in quick succession. I let go immediately, shifting back and stepping away from him, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The referee grabs my wrist and raises my arm high in victory. The noise surrounding me is overwhelming, a wall of sound pressing in from every direction. I don’t stay to soak in the win, don’t linger to accept shouted congratulations or exchanged bets. I never do. I slip out through the unmarked side door of the cage before anyone can crowd around me, slipping into the narrow concrete corridor that leads toward the back exit of the warehouse. My hands are shaking — pure, sharp adrenaline, not fear. It always hits hardest once the fight is over, once the rush of the match starts to fade. I pull the mask off my face, stuff it deep into the pocket of my faded black hoodie, and lean back against the cold, damp brick wall, breathing slow and steady to bring my heart rate down. My lip is split, throbbing faintly where his glancing blow caught me early in the fight, my ribs ache on my left side from another stray strike. Nothing broken, no serious injury. I’ll heal. I always do. Money changes hands in the shadowed corner of the corridor, quiet and unspoken. I take the thick sealed envelope the organiser hands me — counting isn’t necessary; they know better than to shortchange their most reliable fighter — and tuck it safely inside the inner pocket of my jacket. “Next week’s match is already booked in,” he asks, voice low. “You in?” I shake my head, gaze fixed on the metal back exit door. “Not sure. I’ll text you if I’m fighting.” I slip out into the night air. The air outside is cold and sharp, cutting through the remaining sweat on my skin and clearing my fogged head fast. I walk three full blocks away from the warehouse before cutting down a narrow, unlit alley, pausing for a full minute to check I’m not being followed, then head toward the busier, well‑lit main streets. Old, ingrained habit. Never go straight home after a fight. Never let anyone trace your path back to where you sleep. Nineteen years old and that’s the full sum of my life. No family, no permanent home, no one waiting for me. Just me. My mother’s face is a faint, blurry memory, her voice softer still, almost impossible to recall clearly. She left me one crumpled photograph, a handful of small personal trinkets, and a lifetime of silence before she died. Who she was running from, where we originally came from, who my biological father was — every last detail died with her. Or so I thought. I reach my apartment — if you can even call the tiny third‑floor studio that — windows permanently fogged from condensation, front door lock picked earlier that week because I’d lost my key and hadn’t bothered paying for a replacement. I lock the flimsy door behind me, drop the envelope of cash on the chipped kitchen table, then cross to my bed and pull the crumpled worn photograph out from the hidden slit inside my pillowcase where I keep it safe. Her smile is faint and sad in the frame, her dark eyes the exact same shade as mine. For years I’d told myself she’d kept us hidden to keep me safe, that every secret she carried was for my own good. I never knew what she was hiding me from, only that she never wanted me to dig up the truth. I grab my phone from the counter, the screen lighting up automatically the second I set it down. One new unread message. No sender number, just plain, cold typed words: Your mother lied to you. My blood runs cold instantly. I stare at the screen, heart hammering hard against my ribs. My fingers fly across the keyboard fast. Who is this? The reply comes back instantly, no delay. Find the Bloodline Reapers. Ask for Knox Black. I stare at those words until the letters blur in front of my eyes. Knox Black. The name means nothing at first glance — and everything all at once. I’ve spent years searching, digging through old public records, asking quiet questions no one around town wanted to answer, chasing dead‑end leads for any trace of my father’s identity. I’ve found nothing, every trail went cold within days. Until now. I sink onto the edge of my thin mattress, the phone still gripped tight in my hand. My mother didn’t lie. That’s what I’ve always repeated to myself. She did what she could to keep me alive and safe. But what if she kept a far bigger secret from me too?