Chapter 2: Concrete Carnage - The Leopard's Last Stand
The stale locker room air clung thick with the metallic tang of blood, cheap disinfectant, and exhaustion. Ingrid leaned against the chipped tile wall, the cold seeping through the torn shoulder of her black catsuit. The jagged rip exposed a mess of bruised muscle and raw scratches, a stark contrast to the still-shimmering leather elsewhere. Her face throbbed where Violet’s nails had scraped, a dull counterpoint to the sharper ache radiating from her ribs. She pressed a wad of gauze to her nose, the white already stained rust-brown.
Across the cramped space, slumped on a plastic bench, Violet Moreau groaned. A medic dabbed antiseptic on the deep gash across her swollen nose bridge. Violet flinched, swatting weakly at the medic’s hand. "Get off, you clumsy oaf!" Her voice was thick, muffled. Her once-pristine red catsuit was smeared with grime and her own blood, the intricate gold stitching lost in the carnage. Her white boots lay discarded nearby, one heel snapped clean off.
The promoter, Marty, a weasel-faced man drowning in a cheap suit two sizes too big, paced the narrow aisle. He clutched a thick wad of cash, peeling off bills with frantic energy. "See? See?" He waved the money towards Ingrid. "Big payday, Nielsen! Crowd ate it up! Pure gold!" His eyes darted nervously to Violet. "And Moreau? Helluva comeback kid story brewing. Once the swelling goes down. Maybe."
Ingrid didn't look at him. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. The Iron Maiden. The image stared back: battered, bleeding, the suit ripped open. Violet’s words echoed. Meat. She peeled the bloody gauze away. Her nose wasn't broken, just badly bruised. Ugly. Real.
"Need you back out there," Marty continued, sidling closer to Ingrid. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Got a… special attraction. Needs handling. Pays triple."
Ingrid finally turned her head. Her gaze, cold and flat despite the fatigue, pinned him. "Triple?"
Marty flinched, then grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Triple. Cash. Now." He shoved a thick stack of bills into her hand. It felt heavy. Dirty. "Ten minutes. Main floor. Wear… something else." His eyes flickered dismissively over her torn suit. "Got a rep to maintain, Iron Maiden."
Ingrid looked down at the cash. Enough to cover rent. Enough to disappear for a while. Enough to make the throbbing in her face and ribs feel distant. She crumpled the bills into her fist. "Fine."
Ten minutes later, Ingrid stood in a dimly lit alcove off the main warehouse floor. The roar of the crowd was a muffled thrum through the thick concrete walls. She’d changed into simpler, brutal gear: a low-cut, sleeveless black top that clung tightly to her torso, revealing the darkening bruises along her ribs and the angry red scratches Violet had left. Below, a short, tight leather skirt hugged her hips, ending high on her thighs. Her legs were bare except for the sleek, towering black leather boots. Thigh-high, they laced up the back with thick black cords pulled tight, showcasing the powerful muscles of her calves and thighs. They felt solid. Grounding. Unlike the ripped catsuit.
She leaned against the cold concrete, rolling her shoulders, testing the limits of the pain. Deep breath in. Sharp stab in her ribs. Out. She bent forward, reaching for her toes, trying to stretch the screaming tightness in her hamstrings and lower back. The cold concrete floor bit into the soles of her feet – she’d kicked off the impractical gladiator sandals, leaving them beside a pile of discarded rags. Her bare feet flexed against the gritty surface.
She was mid-stretch, fingers brushing her bootlaces, spine curved, abs clenched and exposed, when the attack came.
Not from the entrance. Not announced.
A blur of leopard print and cheap plastic shot from the deeper shadows behind a stack of crates. Valeria. Fifty-two if she was a day, squeezed into fluorescent leopard-print pasties that barely covered her nipples and a microscopic thong. Clear plastic heels, impossibly high and precarious, clattered on the concrete as she lunged. Her face was a roadmap of hard living, dominated by a thick, jagged scar running from her temple down her cheek and disappearing beneath her jawline. Her eyes were wide, frantic, bloodshot.
She didn't roar. She hissed. Like cornered vermin.
Her clawed hands, tipped with chipped red nails, raked down Ingrid’s exposed abdomen. Not a superficial scratch. Deep, burning furrows carved through sweat-slicked skin, drawing instant beads of crimson.
Ingrid gasped, recoiling instinctively, the stretch forgotten. Pain, sharp and shocking, lanced through her core. Before she could straighten, Valeria ducked lower. Her scarred face contorted in a snarl. She sank her teeth into the soft, vulnerable flesh of Ingrid’s inner thigh, just above the top of the high leather boot.
The bite wasn't playful. It was savage. Teeth grinding into muscle. Ingrid cried out, a raw sound ripped from her throat. She instinctively grabbed at Valeria’s greasy, peroxide-blonde hair, trying to yank her off. Valeria clung on, shaking her head like a terrier, her plastic heels scraping wildly.
Then, Valeria’s free hand shot up. Not to punch. To grab. Her fingers, surprisingly strong, found the stiff peak of Ingrid’s nipple through the thin fabric of her low-cut top. She didn't just pinch. She twisted. Hard. Wrenching the tender flesh against the rough denim-like material.
Ingrid saw white. Agony exploded in three places at once: her ripped stomach, her savaged thigh, her tortured breast. It wasn't Violet’s calculated brutality. This was feral. Desperate. Ugly.
"Get… OFF!" Ingrid roared, finally finding her strength. She slammed her fist down onto Valeria’s back, right between her shoulder blades. Valeria grunted, the bite loosening. Ingrid seized the moment, planting her bare foot squarely on Valeria’s chest and shoving with all her might.
Valeria flew backwards, landing hard on her ass, her plastic heels splaying outwards. She scrambled back like a crab, wiping blood – Ingrid’s blood – from her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chest heaved. She wore cheap red patent leather boots, surprisingly intact, with a thin black ribbon tied in a crude bow around one ankle. They looked absurdly out of place beneath her scarred, leopard-printed desperation.
Ingrid stood panting, blood trickling down her stomach from the claw marks, throbbing pain radiating from her thigh and breast. She touched her torn top, her fingers coming away smeared red. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The cold concrete felt distant beneath her boots.
Valeria pushed herself up onto her knees, her scarred face twisted in a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. She spat onto the concrete, a pinkish mix of saliva and Ingrid’s blood. Her voice was a nicotine-roughened rasp. "Heard about Violet, Maiden." She chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Heard she made you squeal." She slowly got to her feet, adjusting her ridiculous pasties, her eyes never leaving Ingrid’s. "Bet she didn't taste like victory."
Valeria settled into a low, wide stance, her red patent boots planted firmly despite the heels. Her scarred face was a mask of grim anticipation. She flexed her fingers, the chipped red nails glinting dully under the alcove's single bare bulb. The air crackled, thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and cheap perfume. Ingrid straightened, ignoring the fire in her abdomen, the deep ache in her thigh, the sharp sting radiating from her breast. The crumpled cash felt like lead in her fist. Triple payday. Triple the pain. She met Valeria’s bloodshot stare, her own eyes glacial. The roar of the unseen crowd seemed to swell, pressing against the concrete walls, waiting. Valeria’s lips peeled back from her teeth in another feral grimace. Ingrid shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, the solid leather boots anchoring her against the gritty floor. Her knuckles cracked as she clenched her fists.