The moment she steps onto the mat, she knows.
This is it.
No more warm-ups. No more guided strikes or pulled punches. No more breaks for bruised ribs or split lips. This isn't training.
This is war.
Her bare feet press into the mat, grounded like a fighter stepping into an arena. Her fingers flex inside the taped gloves, wrists wrapped tight with the familiar sting of Donatello's perfectly placed bindings. Her tank top clings with sweat, sports bra visible beneath. Her hair is up, high and tight, like a soldier. Her body is scarred, bruised, but stronger than it has ever been. She breathes in through her nose, sharp and steady.
Four brothers.
One Ghost.
Leo's the first to move. Of course he is. Tactical. Fast. Always calculating.
She sees it before he commits—the slight shift of his heel, the twitch of his fingers. She dodges his punch with a sway and counters with an elbow to the ribs.
Then Raphael hits her.
A brutal hook to her side. He doesn't hold back. Not today.
Pain radiates. She grits her teeth, absorbs it, spins. Her heel catches him across the face. He stumbles but grins. Bloody, proud.
"Two punches. Step back. Another one," she mutters under her breath. She's memorized Raphael's rhythm like a song. He goes for it. She ducks, plants her hand on the floor, and flips over him, using his own shoulder as leverage. Her knee clips his temple mid-air.
Donatello comes in next. Silent. Focused.
Footwork. Precision.
She meets him head-on. Feints left. He anticipates. She sweeps low, spins into a roundhouse that lands across his ribs. He grunts.
Then Mickey grabs her from behind. Arms wrapped around her torso. Her feet leave the floor. He lifts.
"Gotcha, Ghost!"
"Eat shit, Mickey."
She headbutts him. Hard.
He yelps, loosens his grip. She uses the momentum to plant both feet on his thighs and kicks off, launching herself backward in midair—and onto Donatello. She wraps her legs around his neck, twists, and slams him to the mat in a modified scissor takedown.
Leo's already moving. She rolls.
His fist grazes her cheek.
She scrambles up, throws a jab at his solar plexus. He blocks. She pivots, hooks his knee with her heel, and sends him tumbling. But she doesn't stop.
Raphael charges. She knows what's coming—that left jab to bait her, the right elbow meant to stun. This time, she catches his elbow.
And breaks the rhythm.
Her knee drives into his gut. He coughs, and she spins with a second strike to the back of his neck. He drops.
Then Donnie and Mickey come at her together.
Dirty now. One holding, one hitting.
Mickey grabs her from the side, pinning her arms.
"Don't worry, I'll be gentle," he jokes, grinning.
"Yeah? I won't."
She stomps down hard on his foot, throws her head back into his nose, and drops. Mickey yelps, staggering.
Donatello doesn't give her space. He goes for her throat.
She turns, traps his arm under hers, and flips him over her hip. He crashes into Mickey.
Leo's already back in. He spins a staff—training gear this time. But she doesn't flinch.
She charges. Jumps.
Her foot lands on the staff. She uses it to propel herself into a full split in the air. Her thighs snap around Leo's neck. She twists midair and throws him with her momentum.
They hit the floor together. She rolls off. Her elbow smashes into Mickey's jaw as he tries to rise.
Raphael's next. Again.
"Come on, Jade!" he barks.
She doesn't answer. She just moves.
He swings. She ducks.
She punches. Once, twice. Just like he taught her. Then the third one—a hook to the jaw. She lands it.
And then she sweeps his legs. Raphael crashes.
Panting. Bloody. Bruised. They circle her.
The brothers. Warriors.
And her.
Their Ghost.
She snarls. Taps the blood on her lip with two fingers. Smears it across her cheek like warpaint.
"Is that all you got?"
Leo grins. "Oh, she wants more."
"Gotta say," Mickey pants. "Not bad for someone who nearly puked doing burpees last month."
"Shut up, Mickey," Donatello mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Make me."
Jade spins and elbows him in the ribs. Hard.
"There. Happy?"
They charge again.
The mat becomes a blur of limbs, grunts, and breath. Fists fly. Feet skid. Bodies slam.
She takes hits. Dishes them back tenfold. She ducks, blocks, redirects. Catches Donnie's wrist and uses his own momentum to knock Mickey sideways. Then kicks off Leo's chest and tackles Raphael to the floor.
This isn't survival anymore.
This is domination.
They made her bleed. Now she makes them work.
At some point, she doesn't even notice who she's fighting.
She just fights.
Her body moves before her mind. Every lesson, every bruise, every scream of muscle and crack of bone—all of it was worth it.
Because now?
Now she is fearless.
Finally, she lands on her feet in the center of the ring. Every brother down. Groaning. Breathing. Smiling.
She wipes her mouth.
Spits blood on the floor.
"Again?" she asks.
Leo leans on an elbow, half-laughing. "You're insane."
Mickey holds up a bruised thumb. "And hot. Definitely hot."
Donnie mutters, "We created a monster."
Raphael just chuckles darkly. "Damn right we did."
Amiel watches from the doorway.
And for the first time—just once—he nods.
Jade breathes.
Not like prey.
Like a predator.
She is ready.
YOU ARE READING
When The World Ends
Action"What happens when the world ends?" He asks in my arms. "We build it back up again." Jade Jacklyn Joy is a 25 year old girl who had a rough upbring. She was the Grimes babysitter for 9 years before the apocalypse happened. Spending that much time w...
