Chapter 2 - The Underground Gym and the First Round
The Port Lands warehouse looked abandoned from the outside—a derelict, corrugated-steel shipping depot surrounded by rusted chain-link fences and dark, stagnant industrial water. But inside, behind a heavily reinforced steel door fitted with a digital biometric scanner, sat a sprawling, state-of-the-art combat gym that cost more than most suburban homes.
The air smelled of fresh sweat, leather bags, disinfectant spray, and raw, unbridled testosterone.
When Nessa pushed open the inner gym doors at exactly 10:58 PM on Saturday, she wasn't wearing her elegant evening gown or her delicate performance shoes. She wore battered black Muay Thai shorts, a breathable gray compression tank top, and heavy ankle wraps securing her shins. Her long auburn hair was braided tightly back into a thick braid against her scalp, keeping every strand out of her face.
Ezra Blackwood was already in the center of a regulation boxing ring surrounded by black canvas and high-tensile ropes. He wore professional black fight shorts and hand wraps, his lean, heavily muscled torso glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the industrial halogen lights overhead.
Pavl Gorski stood near the corner post, leaning against the ring ropes with a heavy mug of coffee, watching Nessa approach with a sneer of absolute mockery. “Looks like the little cellist brought her dress-up clothes,” Pavl muttered.
Nessa didn't even look at him. She walked up the metal steps, slipped through the ring ropes, and began wrapping her own hands with disciplined, rhythmic precision, testing the tightness of the cotton bandage against her knuckles.
Ezra leaned against his corner post, arms resting casually on the top rope, his pale gray eyes assessing her with cool, clinical curiosity. “You actually showed up. Most people would have taken the loss on the cello and blocked my number.”
“Most people don’t owe eighty-four thousand dollars to a neurological ward,” Nessa replied, finishing her hand wraps and clicking her teeth together. “And most people don’t realize that playing Bach for fifteen years builds incredible finger independence and forearm tendon strength.”
Ezra offered a thin, humorless smile. “Let’s see if those finger tendons hold up when someone is trying to separate your jaw from your skull.”
“The rules?” Nessa asked, rolling her neck to loosen the tight muscles in her cervical spine.
“Standard professional Muay Thai rules,” Ezra answered, stepping out of his corner and pacing lightly on the canvas. “Three-minute rounds. One minute rest. Striking with fists, elbows, knees, and shins allowed. No grappling submissions, no groin strikes. We go until someone gets knocked down for a ten-count or taps out.”
“Sounds generous,” Nessa murmured.
At the edge of the ring, Pavl struck a heavy brass gong with a wooden mallet.
Clang!
Round one began.
Ezra didn't rush her. As a man accustomed to controlling every boardroom and back-alley negotiation in the city, he preferred to probe his opponent’s defenses first. He stepped forward smoothly, bouncing lightly on his toes, throwing out a cautious left jab to test her distance.
Nessa didn't block it with her gloves. Instead, she slipped her head gracefully to the outside, letting the punch sail harmlessly past her ear, and countered instantly with a lightning-fast roundhouse kick aimed directly at his ribs.
Smack!
Her shin connected solidly with Ezra’s left flank with the sharp crack of a baseball bat hitting a bag of flour.
Ezra’s eyes widened in sudden, genuine shock. He grunted, stumbling half a step sideways as the unexpected force of the kick rattled his ribs. He hadn't expected a woman weighing fifty pounds less than him to generate that kind of explosive rotational power.
Before he could recover his balance, Nessa closed the distance. She didn't box like an amateur; she moved with the devastating, suffocating efficiency of a seasoned Nak Muay who had spent ten years training in a grueling camp in downtown Bangkok during her college years.
She threw a rapid-fire combination—left hook to the body, right cross to the chin, followed immediately by a devastating upward knee strike aimed straight at his midsection.
Ezra managed to cross his forearms defensively just in time, absorbing the crushing impact of the knee against his guard. The sheer force pushed him backward across the canvas, his boots scraping loudly against the mat until he slammed hard into the corner turnbuckle.
“What the hell...” Pavl muttered from ringside, nearly dropping his coffee mug.
May you like
Ezra shook his head, clearing the mental fog, a dangerous, adrenaline-fueled grin finally breaking across his cold features. The bored, arrogant crime boss had officially vanished. In his place stood a lethal street fighter who realized he had just walked into a very dangerous trap.
“Not bad, cellist,” Ezra breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Not bad at all.”
