Crown Of Blood

6

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

The voices meshed into one monstrous roar, pressing against Elena Silva's skull until her very bones seemed to hum with it. She stood near the edge of the crowd, her posture deceptively relaxed beneath the hooded jacket that concealed her features. Yet every nerve in her body was taut, vibrating with awareness.

The underground arena was a pit of chaos and greed. Steel bars caged the ring, their paint chipped and flaking with rust. Above, harsh floodlights poured down an unforgiving glare, bleaching the fighters' skin pale and unforgiving. Around the edges, the mob swelled—men and women crushed shoulder to shoulder, their faces flushed with alcohol and lust for violence. Cigarette smoke drifted in heavy curls, stinging her eyes. The stench of sweat, spilled beer, and blood seeped into her nostrils, clinging like a second skin.

The crowd screamed for slaughter, but Elena's lips curved into a sly, almost predatory smile.

They had no idea.

Josh stepped into the ring, his movements calm, unhurried. The boos that greeted him were loud enough to rattle the floorboards, insults hurled like stones. Yet he didn't so much as glance at the crowd. His dark eyes stayed fixed on the opponent across from him—Simba, the self-proclaimed beast of the club.

Elena's gaze lingered on Simba. He was a brute, no question. A tower of muscle, every inch of him built for intimidation. His chest gleamed with sweat though the fight had yet to begin, tattoos curling like serpents across his thick arms. His jaw clenched as if carved from stone, and when he smirked, his teeth flashed like those of a predator ready to devour prey.

He thrust his fist forward for the customary bump. Josh met it with measured composure, his knuckles brushing Simba's. Elena caught the subtle twitch in Simba's lips, the unspoken promise of violence.

The audience leaned forward as one organism, the hunger in their eyes feral.

"Sadists," Elena muttered beneath her breath, her voice dripping with disdain.

They wanted Josh broken. They wanted spectacle. They thought they were about to watch another nameless man be torn apart by Simba's fists.

Idiots.

Elena knew better.

Her guardian wasn't just another body thrown to the slaughter. He was steel wrapped in silence, the knife you never saw until it slit your throat. Within the Silva estate, Josh's name was never spoken casually—it was whispered in corridors, carried on the kind of reverence reserved for ghosts and monsters. Trained in every art of combat, fluent in every weapon, his reputation preceded him even when he remained unseen. He was her shadow. Her shield. Her most dangerous secret.

And these fools thought him prey.

The bell clanged, a sharp sound that cut through the din.

Josh didn't move first. He crouched low, his body a coil of restraint, every line of him honed and patient. Elena's pulse quickened. She knew his rhythm—defense first, always. He wasn't hesitant; he was calculating. He never wasted energy, never wasted motion.

Simba snarled and lunged, his fist slicing the air with brutal speed. Josh slipped aside, fluid as smoke, and countered. A clean, precise punch sank into Simba's ribs with a thud that echoed louder than the crowd's gasps. The giant staggered, teeth bared in sudden pain.

The spectators howled, some ecstatic, most outraged. Simba's face darkened with fury, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered in his gaze.

Elena leaned forward, her eyes alight. Watching Josh in action was unlike anything she had imagined—controlled violence wrapped in silence. Her veins sang with exhilaration. She didn't regret sending him in. She had known the moment he stepped forward that victory was inevitable.

Her focus was so locked on the ring that she almost didn't register the sharp jab against her arm.

Elena's head snapped sideways. A stranger stood far too close, a woman with orange hair blazing under the arena lights. Her clothing was little more than scraps, torn jeans hanging from bony hips, a leather bra studded with cheap metal. Smoke curled from the joint between her fingers, circling her garishly painted lips. In her other hand, she held a transparent box brimming with bills.

"Oi," the woman barked, her voice shrill, grating. "Drop ten dollars for the show!" She shook the box, bills fluttering like trapped birds.

Elena's brow furrowed. She slid her hand into Josh's jacket, rifling through the pockets. Empty. Of course—he'd left her nothing.

Straightening, she lowered her voice, masking the smooth silk of her natural tone with the roughness of a boy's. "I don't have money."

The woman's smirk snapped into a sneer.

"Then who the f**k let you in, huh? Bum?" She shoved Elena's shoulder sharply, sending her back a step.

For a second, Elena's vision blurred red. Her breath hitched. No one touched her. No one dared.

"Don't touch me," she warned, her voice low and edged with danger.

The woman laughed, blowing a thick cloud of smoke into Elena's face. "What if I don't? You gonna cry about it?" She shoved again, harder this time.

The switch flipped inside Elena's chest. Enough.

Her eyes, once alive with amusement at Josh's fight, turned to storms. She faced the woman fully, her stare sharpened into blades.

"You will regret it," she said softly, the words heavy with conviction.

The woman scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, listen to this little s**t. Gonna make me regret it?" Her hand rose for another shove.

Elena moved first.

Her fingers clamped onto the woman's wrist and twisted. The crack was audible, sharp as a gunshot. A scream tore from the woman's throat as her knees buckled, the box tumbling from her grasp. Money scattered across the filthy floor, bills fluttering in every direction.

The crowd, until now deafened by bloodlust, fell into sudden silence. Heads turned. Eyes widened.

Elena didn't waver under the attention. She twisted harder, dragging the woman downward until her body crashed against the floorboards. Another sharp cry echoed, but Elena's grip was merciless.

"I said you would regret it," Elena snarled, her voice cutting through the hush, punching her jaw.

With a shove, she then released her hold, letting the woman slump into the grime.

Gasps rippled through the mob. Whispers followed. A disguised boy had just humiliated one of their own—and not just any regular, but one of the club's collectors.

The orange-haired woman writhed, clutching her arm, her heavy makeup smeared with tears. But pain quickly gave way to rage. Her chest heaved as she pushed herself up, trembling but defiant.

"You fucker!" she spat, her voice shrill with humiliation. "You dare hit me? My master won't spare you!"

Elena tilted her head, unbothered by the threat. Her lip curled in disdain. "Weakling."

The word cut deeper than any physical blow.

Murmurs surged through the crowd, their attention divided now—half on Josh dismantling Simba in the ring, half on the unknown boy who had just broken one of the club's own enforcers without hesitation. The shift in energy was palpable. Suspicion. Curiosity. Respect, even.

The woman lunged again, her face twisted with fury, but Elena stepped back smoothly, her stance firm. Her hands flexed, ready. If this fool thought she could intimidate her, she had another thing coming.

Above the whispers, Elena caught the faintest sound from the ring—the dull crack of fist against flesh, followed by the roar of an enraged crowd. Josh was dismantling Simba piece by piece, and soon, their gazes would turn back. But for now, the spotlight had found her.

Her hood shadowed her features, her chest rose steady with each breath, and her eyes blazed with the cold confidence of someone who had been raised among wolves and learned to bite sharper than all of them.

The woman's words lingered in the smoky air, heavy with implication. My master won't spare you.

For the first time since entering the club, Elena felt something coil deep in her gut. Not fear—no, she had been taught to wield fear like a weapon. But curiosity.