Chapter 27: Mat Murder
The warehouse air hung thick with the smell of engine oil, damp concrete, and old sweat. Harsh industrial lights overhead cast long, stark shadows across the oil-stained floor. In the center, on a makeshift ring of frayed wrestling mats, the two women circled. Barely contained fury radiated off Ingrid's girlfriend. Her black catsuit gleamed under the lights, the silver studs catching the glare, the high patent-leather boots clicking sharply with each precise step. Her crimson toenails flashed like warning lights.
Opposite her, Violet’s partner, the woman with the scar slicing down her cheek like a crack in porcelain, moved with a cocky swagger. Her red leather catsuit stretched tight over her hips, the low neckline revealing deep cleavage. The single silver spike on her glossy black boot toe scraped occasionally against the mat. A vicious smirk played on her lips.
"Still playing nurse, little bird?" the red-clad fighter sneered, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. She feinted a kick, the spiked toe whistling past Ingrid's girlfriend's knee. "How's Ingrid? Enjoying her new breathing hole?" Her laugh was a harsh bark. "Violet always did leave her mark. Inside and out."
Ingrid's girlfriend didn't react visibly. Her green eyes, usually warm and playful for Ingrid, were chips of glacial ice, fixed on the scarred woman. She shifted her weight silently, the black boots rooted firmly. "Violet's mark is leaking onto a morgue slab, bitch," she stated, her voice low and flat. "Talk all you want. It won't stitch her throat back together."
The smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl. "You think that washed-up bitch winning a dirty fight changes anything?" The woman in red lunged, not for a kick, but a clawing rake aimed at the black catsuit's bare shoulder. "Violet crippled her! Your precious Iron Maiden is ruined. That cunt of hers will never close right again!"
Her fingers scraped leather, failing to find purchase. Ingrid's girlfriend swayed back, a hair's breadth from the touch. The taunt about Ingrid's injury hit like a physical blow, igniting the cold fury into a white-hot rage.
"Shut your fucking mouth about her!" The roar tore from her throat, raw and primal.
The woman in red laughed again, dancing back, her boots clicking rapidly. "Why? Scared it's true? Bet it gapes like a fish now, doesn't it? All torn up from Vi's nails? Bet you can't even touch her without making her scream!"
It was the last straw. The image – Ingrid flinching, the bandages, the sheer violation – exploded in her mind. Rational thought vaporized. Pure, protective vengeance took over.
With a guttural cry that echoed off the metal rafters, Ingrid's girlfriend exploded forward. Not a calculated strike. A full-body tackle fueled by blinding fury. She ignored the spiked boot lashing out, taking a glancing blow high on her leather-clad thigh. Pain flared, ignored.
She hit the woman in red like a freight train, driving her backwards. Her momentum carried them both off the edge of the raised mats. They crashed down onto a piled stack of discarded, stained foam mats stacked haphazardly against a grimy warehouse wall. Dust plumed into the air.
The woman in red gasped, the wind knocked out of her. Before she could recover, Ingrid's girlfriend was on top, straddling her waist, the black boots pinning the other woman's legs. One gloved hand – black leather, knuckles reinforced – fisted violently in the woman’s dyed-black hair, yanking her head up off the musty foam.
"Enjoyed watching it, didn't you?" Ingrid's girlfriend hissed, her face inches from the scarred one's, breath hot. "Your psycho girlfriend carving up Ingrid? Loved seeing her bleed?"
The woman in red coughed, trying to buck, but the weight was too much. "Fuck you! She deserved worse!" she spat, struggling against the iron grip in her hair.
"Worse?" The word was a dangerous whisper. Then, with terrifying strength, Ingrid's girlfriend slammed the woman's face down. Hard.
THWACK!
The sound was sickeningly wet, a dull impact against the compressed, grimy foam. Dust and fragments of old tape puffed into the air. The woman in red cried out, a muffled shriek of surprise and pain.
Ingrid's girlfriend didn’t pause. She wrenched the head up again by the hair, ignoring the spittle and blood already smearing the woman's chin and the foul mat below. "Violet ripped her apart!" she screamed, the sound raw and ragged with grief and rage. "Tore her INSIDE!"
THWACK!
Another brutal smash. The foam yielded slightly, but the force was bone-jarring. Blood, bright red and shocking against the dirty grey, bloomed from the woman's nose, staining the foam beneath her cheek.
"Stop—!" the woman choked, eyes wide with dawning terror, blood bubbling at her nostrils. She clawed uselessly at the arm holding her hair."STOP?" Ingrid's girlfriend roared, her voice cracking. "Like Violet stopped? Like you wanted her to stop?" Her eyes were wild, unfocused with fury. "You cheered for it! You loved it!" She wrenched the head up again, higher this time. The woman's neck strained.
"Please—" the woman whimpered, tears mixing with blood on her face.
Ingrid's girlfriend leaned down, her lips almost touching the woman's ear. Her voice dropped to a guttural, venomous growl that vibrated with pure, unadulterated hate. "Your cunt's gonna feel what Violet did to Ingrid."
The woman's eyes dilated in pure horror. "No! WAIT—!"
But Ingrid's girlfriend was already moving. Her free hand, the other leather-gloved fist, released the hair and shot downwards. Not to punch. To grip. To claw. To rip. Straight for the straining red leather stretched taut over the woman’s groin. The silver zip glinted like a target.
The silver zip glinted like a target under the harsh warehouse lights. Ingrid's girlfriend's leather-gloved hand shot downwards, fingers hooked like talons, aiming straight for the straining red leather stretched taut over her opponent's groin. The woman beneath her froze, eyes wide with primal terror, breath catching in her bloody throat.
"NO!" The scream ripped out, raw and desperate, echoing off the corrugated metal walls. She bucked violently, a surge of adrenaline-fueled panic overcoming the daze from the face-smashing. Her spiked boot heel scraped wildly against Ingrid's girlfriend's black-clad calf, drawing a thin line of blood through the patent leather. "Get OFF!"
Ingrid's girlfriend snarled, taking the scratch without flinching. Her descending hand didn't slow. Fingertips scraped the cool metal pull of the zipper. "Should've thought about that," she hissed, her voice thick with vengeful fury, "when your psycho bitch was tearing Ingrid apart!" She seized the zipper tab, the leather creaking under the strain.
A sickening rrrrriiiipppp tore through the air. Not fabric, but metal teeth yielding violently. The red leather catsuit parted from navel to pubic bone, exposing pale skin, black lace panties, and the stark vulnerability beneath. The woman in red shrieked, not from penetration, but from the sudden, violating exposure, the cold warehouse air hitting intimate skin.
Before Ingrid's girlfriend could act further – before fingers could claw, before the promised retribution could land – heavy footsteps pounded across the concrete floor. "BREAK IT UP! NOW!" Two burly security guards, faces grim beneath their caps, lunged into the tangle of limbs and stained foam mats. Hands clamped onto Ingrid's girlfriend's shoulders, hauling her backwards with brute force.
She fought them, a feral twist of muscle and leather. "Get your hands off me!" she roared, her boot heels digging into the mat as they dragged her away. Her glare remained locked on the woman scrambling backwards on the mats, clutching her torn suit together, face a mask of blood, snot, and utter humiliation. "This isn't OVER!"
The guards held firm, their grips like iron. "It is for tonight, Nielsen," one grunted, breathing heavily. "Tournament rules. No unsanctioned brawls."
The woman in red spat blood onto the foam, pushing herself up onto shaky elbows. Her torn catsuit gaped obscenely. "Sanctioned?" she choked out, a hysterical laugh bubbling through the blood. "Like what your broken bitch got? Violet carved her up good!" Her defiance was brittle, fueled by terror and spite. "She’s finished! A walking wound!"
Ingrid's girlfriend surged against the guards' hold, a fresh wave of rage darkening her face. "Say that again!" she snarled, straining forward. "I dare you!"
One guard tightened his grip, stepping partially between them. "Enough! Both of you! Scarlett, get yourself cleaned up. Nielsen," he jerked his head towards the warehouse office door, "Petrov wants words. Now."
The fight drained slightly from Ingrid's girlfriend's posture, replaced by cold, simmering fury. She stopped struggling, but her green eyes never left Scarlett's battered face. "Petrov can wait," she stated flatly. She shrugged off the guards' hands with deliberate force, straightened her own black catsuit where it had ridden up, and smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead. The crimson smear on her patent leather boot gleamed wetly.
She took a single, deliberate step towards Scarlett, who flinched back. "You tell your dead girlfriend's ghost," Ingrid's girlfriend said, her voice dangerously low, "that Ingrid’s healing just fine." A cold, mirthless smile touched her lips. "And tell yourself… sleep lightly." She turned on her heel, the sharp click of her boots echoing in the sudden silence as she strode towards the office, leaving Scarlett trembling amidst the wreckage of foam and her own shredded pride. The scent of oil, blood, and fear hung heavy in the air.
The scent of oil, blood, and fear hung heavy in the air. Ingrid's girlfriend strode towards the office door, the sharp click-clack of her patent leather boots echoing like gunshots in the sudden quiet. Scarlett remained sprawled on the ruined mats, one hand clutching the torn edges of her red catsuit over her exposed lace, the other wiping blood from her nose, her chest heaving with ragged breaths and suppressed sobs.
"Get up, Scarlett," one guard muttered, offering a hand he knew she wouldn't take. His partner watched Ingrid's girlfriend warily, hand resting on his belt. "Medic's coming for that nose."
Scarlett slapped the offered hand away, scrambling backwards on the foam like a crab, her spiked boots kicking up dust. "She ripped it! Did you see? She fucking ripped it!" Her voice was high-pitched, hysterical, the earlier defiance dissolved into humiliated terror. She glared at the retreating black figure. "Petrov better fucking ban her!"
The office door swung open before Ingrid's girlfriend reached it. Dmitri Petrov, the tournament organizer, filled the doorway, his face like thunder beneath slicked-back grey hair. He wore a too-tight silk shirt, sweat already staining the armpits. "Nielsen!" he bellowed, his voice bouncing off the metal rafters. "My office! Now! What the hell was that display?"
Ingrid's girlfriend stopped a few feet from him, her posture rigid, shoulders squared. She didn't flinch. "Evening, Dmitri." Her tone was deceptively calm, ice beneath the surface. "Just settling a score. Seems fair, considering Violet's handiwork on Ingrid." She subtly shifted her weight, her crimson-toed boot scraping a tiny arc on the concrete. "Or did you miss that show?"
Petrov’s face purpled. "I didn't miss a damn thing! Violet’s dead! And that," he jabbed a thick finger towards the mats where Scarlett was finally being helped up, whimpering, "was not sanctioned! Not in my warehouse! You cost me viewers with that back-alley bullshit!" Spittle flew from his lips. "You think you just run around tearing up fighters?"
The two guards near Scarlett half-turned, distracted by their boss's rage. The one who’d offered his hand now focused on calming the trembling woman, murmuring something low. The other guard shifted his stance, looking between Petrov and the bloodied scene. His grip loosened.
It was the split second Ingrid's girlfriend needed.
Petrov was still ranting, jabbing his finger. "You've got a discipline hearin'! Fines! Maybe suspension! Your girl's fight purse is—"
She moved. Not towards the office. Not away. She exploded sideways, a blur of black leather and controlled fury. She bypassed Petrov completely, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling back into the doorframe with a grunt of surprise. Her target wasn't him.
Scarlett had just managed to get one foot under her, leaning heavily on the guard, her face a mess of blood and tears, her free hand still desperately holding the torn leather closed. She saw the black shape coming. Her eyes widened, pure animal panic flooding them. "No—!"
Too late.
Ingrid's girlfriend covered the distance in three long strides. She ignored the guard who belatedly reached for her. Her black-gloved hand shot out, not for Scarlett's throat, not for her face. It clamped onto the wrist of the hand clutching the torn leather, pinning it brutally against Scarlett's belly. The guard holding Scarlett instinctively released her arm, stepping back in shock.
Scarlett’s other hand flew up instinctively to defend herself, scratching wildly at the black leather sleeve. "GET OFF ME, YOU PSYCHO BITCH!" she shrieked, the sound raw and tearing.
Ingrid's girlfriend leaned in, her face inches from Scarlett's, her glacial green eyes boring into the other woman's terror. The smell of blood and fear was suffocating. She remembered Ingrid’s stitched flesh, her gritted teeth against the pain, Violet's cruel, dying eyes. Her voice dropped to a guttural whisper, thick with promised vengeance. "Told you to sleep lightly."
Then her free hand, gloved in slick black leather, knuckles hard, darted down. Not to punch. To penetrate. Fingers stiffened, rigid and seeking. They bypassed the flimsy lace barrier, ignored the feeble scratch of Scarlett’s nails on her arm, and plunged knuckle-deep into the exposed, vulnerable heat between Scarlett's legs.
SHE CLAWS INSIDE.
Scarlett’s scream wasn’t sound; it was pure, visceral shock ripped from her lungs, a high-pitched, tearing shriek that echoed off the corrugated steel walls. Ingrid’s girlfriend’s leather-gloved fingers, stiff and unyielding, plunged knuckle-deep into her, a brutal invasion mirroring Violet’s violation of Ingrid. Scarlett convulsed, her body arching off the stained foam mat, eyes bulging with agony and utter disbelief. "GET OUT!" she choked, her voice strangled, fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the black leather sleeve pinning her wrist.
"Feel it?" Ingrid's girlfriend hissed, her face inches from Scarlett’s contorted one, breath hot and smelling of iron and rage. She twisted her wrist slightly, grinding the stiff leather knuckles against tender, unprepared flesh. Scarlett gasped, a wet, ragged sound, tears streaming freely now, mixing with the blood smeared across her cheeks. "That’s just a taste of what Violet gave her." She pressed deeper, ignoring Scarlett’s choked whimpers, the muscles in her forearm corded with tension. "Every fucking tear."
Scarlett bucked wildly, a trapped animal, her spiked heels kicking air. "Stop! Please! I didn't—!" Her plea dissolved into another guttural cry as the invading fingers twisted again. The guard who’d released her earlier stood frozen, hand hovering near his belt, unsure, intimidated by the raw fury radiating off the woman in black. Petrov, still recovering from being shoved, bellowed incoherently from the doorway.
Before Ingrid’s girlfriend could wrench deeper, before Scarlett’s thrashing could escalate into something worse, Petrov shoved past the stunned guard near him. "ENOUGH!" His roar cut through Scarlett’s sobs. He didn’t grab Ingrid’s girlfriend; he slammed his bulk between them, forcing her back a step with his sheer mass. His silk shirt strained. "You rip another fighter apart in my warehouse, Nielsen, and I’ll have you banned from every pit from here to Kiev!" Spittle flew. "You think this is a backstreet brawl?"
Ingrid’s girlfriend withdrew her hand slowly, deliberately, the slick black leather glistening under the harsh lights. She didn’t look at it. Her glacial green eyes stayed locked on Scarlett, who curled onto her side, clutching herself, trembling violently, her torn red leather gaping obscenely. "She started it," Ingrid’s girlfriend stated flatly, wiping her gloved hand casually on her own black-clad thigh. "Talked shit about Ingrid. About her wounds."
Petrov’s face was purple. "I don’t give a rat’s ass who started it! Violet’s dead! That’s settled!" He jabbed a thick finger towards Scarlett’s crumpled form. "This? This is chaos! Bad for business!" He took a breath, trying to regain his oily composure, smoothing his hair. "You want payback? Fine. Channel it properly. Make Petrov some money."
He stepped closer to Ingrid’s girlfriend, lowering his voice slightly, though it still carried. "Scarlett here… she’s Violet’s designated stand-in. Inherited her ranking, her obligations." A cruel smirk touched his lips. "Including the rematch clause Violet triggered before she… expired." He paused, letting the implication hang in the thick air. "Against Ingrid Nielsen."
Ingrid’s girlfriend froze. The simmering rage flickered, momentarily eclipsed by cold disbelief. "Ingrid?" Her voice was dangerously quiet. "She’s in a hospital bed, Petrov. Stitched together like a damn quilt. Violet saw to that."
Petrov shrugged, a gesture devoid of empathy. "Contracts are contracts, darling. Violet invoked the clause pre-fight. Ingrid won… technically." He glanced dismissively at Scarlett, who was being helped to sit up by the hesitant guard, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. "Scarlett assumes the obligation. Ingrid heals, she fights Scarlett. Or forfeits her title, her purse… everything." He met Ingrid’s girlfriend’s furious gaze. "That’s your sanctioned payback. In the ring. Where it makes me money."
The warehouse seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were Scarlett’s muffled sobs and the distant hum of machinery. Ingrid’s girlfriend stared at Petrov, then slowly turned her head towards Scarlett. The battered woman flinched under her gaze, shrinking back.
A slow, cold smile spread across Ingrid’s girlfriend’s face, devoid of warmth or humor. It was the smile of a predator seeing unexpected prey cornered. She took a single step towards the trembling Scarlett. "You hear that, Scarlett?" Her voice was soft, almost conversational, yet it cut through the air like ice. "Petrov says we get to finish this properly." She leaned down slightly, her crimson-toed boot scraping the concrete near Scarlett’s spiked heel. "Ingrid’s gonna love meeting Violet’s replacement."
Scarlett lifted her tear-streaked, bloodied face. Raw terror warred with a dawning, sickening comprehension in her eyes. The violation she’d just endured wasn’t the end; it was a brutal preview. She stared at Ingrid’s girlfriend, then at Petrov’s implacable expression. Her voice, when it came, was a shattered whisper, thick with tears and a terrible, resigned bitterness. "Tell Ingrid…" she rasped, her gaze dropping to the bloodstained mat between them, "...tell her Violet sends her regards."