Ghost - in the arms of Death

Chapter 3

I sit huddled up in Leo’s sweater and his leather jacket on my couch. The hood pulled deep into my face as I stare at the black card on my living room table. My head hurts from how hard I am trying to figure out what this means.

Is it a joke? Is it real? Was he part of some illegal fight club? Why didn’t he take me with him? Why didn’t he tell me about it?

I would have wanted to be part of this. One way or another. To fight or to support. I would have done anything for him.

With a heavy sigh, I start rubbing my temples. I need fresh air to set my head straight. This is driving me insane. I could use a good boxing match right about now. Spar with Leo to get into a different mindset.

I grab my gym bag and swing it over my shoulder. It’s late, which is good because I know just the place to go to blow off some steam.

I take the subway to the city center. I work at the AMB building –a beautiful, modern skyscraper that stands tall and proud upon the other corporate buildings. It has a few nice features for the employees. Among other things, it has a well-equipped gym.

A while ago I found that it’s usually vacant after nine in the evening. Perfect for me. I don’t want company. I want to be on my own and push my body to its limits.

I need to feel my lungs ache and my muscles burn. I need to go home and fall asleep from exhaustion.

*Trigger warning*

Shortly after my sorry attempt to kill myself, I found a letter in my mailbox with an obnoxious job offer. I was desperately looking for a new job back then. The place I worked at –a shady investment firm- wasn't a place I wanted to spend more time than necessary.

*Safe to read*

To this day I still have no idea why I was offered this job. It’s not as if my previous occupation put me on some list of high professionals. If anything, it put me right at the bottom of it. Yet, I ended up at AMB Inc.

I didn’t question their choice. I needed the change and the money. I shared my apartment with Leo and we split the rent. I should have found a roommate by now, but I can’t bring myself to rent out his room. So I pay full rent for an apartment that’s way too big for just me.

I swipe my keycard over the locks at the main entrance and they buzz open. The night guard looks up from his magazine as my footsteps echo through the empty lobby.

“Do you ever sleep, love?” he asks, with a gentle smile on his aging face.

“Not if I can help it, Bob,” I smile at him. He’s a kind man, always in a chatty mood. He doesn’t ask too many questions, but he sure likes to talk a lot. Sometimes I wonder if he’s lonely and just wants someone to talk to.

“Brought you a snack,” I say and hand him a box of his favorite donuts.

“You shouldn’t,” he smiles but takes the box eagerly.

“Ah, it’s a long night. You’ll need it.”

“You spoil me,” he grins and opens the lid, checking out which flavors I got him.

“See you later,” I say and hurry to the elevators to take me up to the fun level –as I like to call it.

Besides a gym, there’s also a sauna and a pool. I’ve never used either, but I like the idea of having the option.

As I step out of the elevator, I wait a moment to listen. It’s quiet. A sure sign that I am alone. Exactly what I need right now.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the soft fumes that are left by the cleaning crew. A fresh citrus scent in the air. I always feel like it smells too clean, but this place has a certain image to maintain, I guess. High maintenance. From bottom to the top.

The company is owned by some super-rich mogul. Alexander Brice. I have never seen him around. I’m not even sure he exists. All I know is that he’s filthy rich and the girls working with me always talk about how gorgeous he is. Oh, and they always add that he’s

an asshole.

I bet he is. You can’t be in this kind of business, own a billion-dollar company, and be a nice guy. Defeats the law of –well, everything.

I don’t care much for the gossip around here. That’s probably one of the reasons I get called into HR every now and then.

Someone complains about me being unfriendly, which isn’t true. I just don’t like to talk to people. Not about my personal life. It’s none of their business.

I push open the glass doors to the empty gym. I don’t bother going to the changing rooms. There is no one here but me.

I take off Leo’s jacket and his hoody and carefully put them on top of my bag. I quickly change my shoes and head to the treadmill.

I take a deep, cleansing breath before I put my headphone on and crank up the volume to something loud. I don’t care what it is, as long as it shuts my mind off. I just need my body to function. That’s all.

Today it’s hard though. I keep thinking about how my brother could have been involved with a fight club, that isn’t supposed to exist.

Did someone give him the card as a joke? Was it a sign of respect? Maybe a weird way to tell him he’s a brilliant fighter?

Maybe it was Vincent. Maybe our uncle gave him the card with something he thought could be an illegal fight club logo. I should ask him about it, but something tells me that Vince wouldn’t know what I was talking about.

He’s not the kind of man who gives out little, secretive cards to tell someone that he thinks he’s great. Vincent is someone who would shout it to the world. Especially with his nephew. He has always been so proud of Leo and me. He still tells the stories to anyone who would listen.

With a shake of my head, I slow down the pace and gaze over the city. The view is stunning. Twinkling lights as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, but my broken soul can’t appreciate it.

I sit down cross-legged, watching the city that never sleeps, wondering if anywhere out there is an underground fight club. Someone is putting his life on the line right this moment in a fight with no rules.

Absentmindedly I start bandaging my hands. My mind still runs a hundred miles an hour with questions. Questions that turn into anger and frustration.

How dare Leo leave me like this? How dare he keep secrets from me?

The more I think about it, the more I feel like I never really knew him. I feel like shouting at him. Picking a fight that would end with me in tears and an apologetic hug from my brother.

I miss his arms around me. The way they could comfort me in an instant. But was it all a lie?

“Stop it!” I scold myself. I loved my brother and I know he loved me the same way. If he was keeping something from me then it was to protect me. That’s the only explanation. Yet, my anger won’t subside.

I huff out a frustrated groan as I get up and walk over to the head bags. They all look so fresh and unused. Shiny even. Those in Vincent’s studio have scratches all over and are patched up in several places. It almost feels wrong to go all out on these fancy punching bags.

I start lightly with a few easy punches and kicks. But the longer I go the angrier I get until I’m taking it all out on the bag.

I throw punches like a Gatling gun. Mercilessly. I can already feel my body protesting, but I can’t stop. A strangled scream escapes my lips as I try to hit harder. Until someone steps into my line of view.

He doesn’t say anything, while I am breathing hard from exhaustion. For a moment all I see are a pair of stormy blue eyes. They seem to hold some kind of understanding.

I lower my hands and watch the stranger walk around the head back and place both hands on each side, holding it in place for me.

“Go ahead,” his voice is silky smooth. There’s no emotion in it though.

I take a deep breath and brush my hair out of my face. He nods at me in encouragement. I have never seen him around here. Which of course is the point. I come here to be alone.

He’s a couple of inches taller than me, but he is built like a tank. Broad shoulders and each muscle carefully toned. His black shirt stretches tightly over his torso. His dirty blond hair was carefully styled. He looks like someone who just traded his suit for his training gear.

I take a deep, calming breath. I know I need to control my anger. Being mad won’t make me a better fighter. It’ll only make me reckless, and I probably hurt myself in the process.

“Use your brain, Liah!” That’s what Leo preached to me every single time we trained together.

So, I store all my frustration in a corner of my mind and focus on my target. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, before I slowly, deliberately hit the punching bag.

Kick. Kick. Punch. Controlled breath and repeat.

I take a step back and slowly exhale. I’m no longer mad. I feel almost calm and at peace. I know it won’t last, but it’s been a while since I felt that way.

“Who were you picturing?” the stranger asks as he lets go of the bag, his steely eyes on me.

I wasn’t picturing anyone. Except maybe myself. Maybe Leo. I lower my gaze and shake my head. I don’t feel like sharing this with some random, drop-dead gorgeous guy. Because hell, he’s good-looking.

A part of me noticed it before, but now, without the rage, I can fully appreciate it. Not that it matters much, but just because I can’t bring myself to feel anything, doesn’t mean I am blind.

“Whoever it was, remind me not to get on your bad side,” he states and turns his attention to the head bag. He starts engaging in soft warm-up training. Way more controlled than me. I can tell he’s a boxer too.

I watch him for a minute. The way his muscles flex when he throws a punch. How he works his feet and slowly turns his hips to increase the power behind each blow.

A careful smile forms on my lips as I turn away and start unwrapping my hands. I pull the elastic band out of my hair as I pick up my stuff and make my way to the showers.

My body is aching, and I am exhausted. But my anger subsided, and I feel like I can start over.

If the Milites Mortes is real there must be someone somewhere out there who knows about it. And I will find him.