Shiver Through Burn

Chapter 10

"Welcome back, Pyra."

A subtle, cool voice greeted me the moment my boots hit the cracked concrete floor—like I had stepped into a different universe, one where being a Guilermo meant nothing.

Here, I wasn’t anyone’s daughter. I wasn’t the polished image on stage, framed in artificial lights and whispered lies. Not the gleaming prize molded for a future in politics. Not the elegant heiress expected to smile through the suffocation.

Here, I was Pyra.

And Pyra never cooled down. Not for anyone.

The air in the warehouse carried a mix of old blood, engine grease, and secrets better left in the dark. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like a warning, half of them flickering and casting long, uneven shadows across the floor. It wasn’t a place that welcomed the faint of heart.

“Oh, look who finally showed up—our golden girl,” Ridge’s voice tore through the silence like a slap. He was seated on the hood of his obnoxiously red Corvette, legs swinging over the edge like a teenager waiting for a joyride. The bastard was always too cheerful for someone who practically lived in a place that reeked of blood, sweat, and unspoken sins. He extended a hand toward me as if to clap me on the shoulder, like we were old friends.

I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. He paused mid-reach and slowly backed off, both hands raised in mock surrender.

“Someone’s feisty tonight,” Patina muttered. She leaned against a rusting support beam, her denim jacket draped across her shoulders like a cape. That half-smirk she wore could start wars.

“The feistier she gets, the more money we’re making,” Ridge added, grinning as he twirled his car keys around his finger.

“You’re relying on Pyra again to do all the heavy lifting,” Patina snapped, folding her arms tightly. “Why don’t you step in the ring for once?”

I smirked, brushing my hair back into a loose knot, strands clinging to my skin from the humid air.

“He won’t. He's all bark and zero punch.”

Ridge raised a brow. “Careful, that’s no way to talk to the guy who taught you how to fight.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. “You mean taught me how not to get hit while you ran your mouth?”

Patina barked a laugh. “Exactly. And now you’re just a loudmouth with a six-pack.”

Ridge clutched his chest like she stabbed him. “God, you two are insufferable. Is it period week or something?”

I ignored him.

Patina didn’t.

She shot him a glare that could end bloodlines. He took the hint and zipped his mouth with an imaginary key, tossing it over his shoulder.

We left Ridge and his overcompensating sports car and made our way deeper into the warehouse. The massive metal door groaned behind us, slamming shut with a weight that sealed the outside world away.

Silence settled around us.

Real silence. Heavy and anticipatory, like a breath held too long.

Every step we took echoed off the walls. Our boots stirred up the dust of forgotten fights and old sins. The place was tucked away in the outer edges of Manila—a stretch of land so abandoned even Google Maps gave up on it. The building itself was invisible to public records. Erased. Reclaimed.

This was the ring before the ring. The underbelly.

Patina and I didn’t talk.

We didn’t need to.

Ridge talked enough for all of us, but even he knew better than to run his mouth too far when the scent of blood still clung to the corners. Here, consequences weren’t theoretical. They bled.

I met Patina at a quiet gym hidden between high-rise buildings in Makati. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t welcome newcomers, and didn’t ask for last names. No mirrors. No machines. Just the sound of fists meeting bags and lungs burning for more.

She watched me train for three weeks before she said a word.

Then one day, she tossed me a pair of gloves and said, “You move like you’re running from something.”

I was.

Still am.

She taught me the art of restraint, how to move with intent, how to make violence look like grace. More importantly, she taught me how to read people. Their breath, their posture, the twitch before the strike.

She had once been the nation’s pride. Patina Angeles. A name that echoed in stadiums. Her kicks were lightning, her discipline military. A SEA Games gold medalist and top Olympic contender. But all it took was one moment. One signature spinning hook kick during qualifiers. A sharp twist. A snap that echoed louder than the cheers.

Her shoulder. Her ligaments. Her future.

Shattered.

The world moved on. Sports networks stopped calling. Sponsors backed out. Headlines forgot her.

But Patina didn’t fade.

She adapted.

Now she ran this place. The underground betting scene bowed to her word. She didn’t just gamble. She predicted outcomes like fate bent around her will. She saw the fight before it even began. Her reputation was ironclad.

And lately, I was her sharpest blade.

Then there’s Ridge.

Reckless. Beautiful. Loud. Dangerous.

He fights like someone who’s already accepted death. Punches like he’s daring someone to stop him. He laughs at broken ribs and bruised egos. Professional boxer, licensed and sponsored, but here? Here he was unfiltered.

He wasn’t here for money.

He was born into it.

Ridge Navarro. Nepo baby. His father owned half of Makati and a quarter of the country’s senators. Real estate, politics, media. But Ridge didn’t care about handshakes or inheritances. He came here for chaos. For blood that meant something.

He liked fighting because it stripped people bare.

Here, everyone bled red. No designer names. No family shields.

Here, you were what your fists made you.

And me?

I was the daughter of Congressman Sebastian Guilermo. The prized marionette. The poised smile. The sweet voice with carefully chosen words. My life had been mapped since birth.

But Pyra wasn’t on that map.

She was a deviation. A fire I set for myself.

Because if anyone in my world found out who I really was? If they discovered I had bruises not from accidents but from fights I volunteered for?

It would be war.

Political, personal, violent.

We stopped at a hallway. The peeling paint, the flickering bulbs, the stench of old smoke and sweat made it feel more like a tomb than a corridor. Patina knocked twice on a rusted steel door. It slid open like a vault.

Inside, the locker room smelled of liniment, leather, and stale ambition. One bulb flickered overhead, casting sharp shadows that danced against the mirror-lined wall.

I peeled off my jacket and dropped my combat jeans and fitted shirt in a heap. My body bore no makeup, no staged elegance. Only scars, hardened muscle, and old bruises with fading stories.

Silently, I started wrapping my hands in cloth—tight, practiced, almost meditative.

“Sit,” Patina said.

I did.

She moved behind me, fingers working through my hair with quick, tight motions, braiding it into cornrows. She pulled it away from my face like she had a hundred times before.

She said nothing for a long time.

Then, softly: “You focused?”

I nodded.

Because tonight wasn’t about survival.

It was about dominance.

The name Pyra came from the Latin word for funeral fire. I chose it on purpose.

Because when I stepped into that ring, I didn’t just fight.

I burned.

And tonight, the fire would consume everything in my way.

There was no turning back now.

This wasn’t the world I was born into.

But it was the one I claimed.

And tonight, Pyra would burn brighter than ever before.