𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡

Ch.35 - The Sick Day

A/N ~ This is gonna be a long one folks. You're welcome.

Juggernaut.

The Juggernaut. That name held weight in my world, alot of weight, in fact.

My stance remains wide, free form and primed for agility, a direct contrast to the compact, trigger-ready one he carries from his boxing roots.

This man's a real threat for someone who's supposedly been out of practice. When he throws down, he does so with relentless brutality. Even with the punches that miss by an inch, you can feel the charged air around them, the crushing force the impact would've held buzzes across your skin like you've just dodged a freight train. He's capable of some downright gruesome damage.

I didn't know his story, but like most, I knew the highlights: Disgraced boxer turned underground legend The shadow ban. The self-exile.

The question is, what's brought him back?

We again round each other in strategic circles, glaring through the window of our raised fists. Sweat coats skin within the cold room as the wild hoots and hollers of onlookers wall us in, human bodies forming a makeshift ring on their own accord. The small crowd is over three dozen strong at this point; large enough that it's clear we're a spectacle, but too small in a way that makes this all feel too.....familiar.

Too close to intimate.

The air holds blood in it, and the familiarity is something my memories repel at.

Head in the game, Sawyer. The weight of the names we both carry has everyone salivating. I'd be lying if I said that doesn't include even Jack himself. There's something ravenous simmering behind the focus in his gaze, silent deadly hunger eating at the nearly black irises, like a hidden monster lurking under the dark depths of a lake. This man has something real to prove. And that's why I need to be careful.

HEAD IN THE GAME, my mind screams again as I dodge another swing.

I lick away the hot sting radiating from my torn lip, tongue greeted by the iron taste of blood. Protect your mother effing head, you idiot. Serves me right for how trash my--he surges forward again.

Attacks come quick. I'll admit, he's got a keen eye for weakness the way he so quickly zeroed in earlier on the bum shoulder I've overworked the past few weeks, despite how well I hide it. The muscles throbbed in anguish now, sensations amplified even more today because -like a complete idiot- I'd forgotten to down the mountain of painkillers I do before most fights.

Aggression. He's a predator, and his style is pure aggression. The two of us fall into yet another rhythm of decisive strikes and dodges. My knee slams into his ribs, he it eats with a pained grunt. But like a bull, he keeps up in furious pace. A fist slips through, cracks me directly in the cheekbone, yet my head snaps right back to focus having already braced for the blow.

It's all a dance, really. A seamless waltz to the rhythm of violence and precision.

Guard. Attack. Destroy.

Brace. Eat. Recover.

Every fighter dances differently, creating carnage with their own unique flair. But frankly speaking, I can't say I like his.

He doesn't let me create space, doesn't allow any relief in pressure. Only advancing again, and again, and again until he's halted by the blunt force of my knee missing upwards a second time, narrowly catching him under the jaw. It's a clear warning that he heeds: Back off. He responds in turn, leg swinging out at the back of mine wanting me to hit the floor. But Jackie-boy's slow. I'm not. My foot smashes right home -dead center mass in the rib cage- completely staggering him and sending the giant stumbling to the floor. The window is open --wide open-- with my every muscle primed to strike, but I hold back the instinct as I order myself to stop.