Chapter 37: Scarred & Searing
The sterile glare of the press room felt like an insult after the cage’s visceral darkness. The harsh overhead lights picked out every smear on the cheap plastic tables, every fleck of dust hanging in the air thick with stale coffee and anticipation. Ingrid sat rigidly on a flimsy folding chair, the black latex of her bodysuit creaking faintly. It was brutally tight, molded to her frame, the cold material pressing against the fresh surgical scars just visible beneath the high neckline and through the angular cutouts over her abdomen and ribs – stark, pink reminders of Violet Moreau’s final, violating assault. The knee-high gladiator heels she wore, straps studded with sharp, metallic points winding up her powerful calves, felt like anchors pinning her to this purgatory. Her right hand, encased in a sleek black compression brace, rested heavily on her thigh.
Across the table, the air shimmered with malice. Violet Moreau hadn’t bothered with subtlety. She reclined in her chair like a queen holding court, draped in a backless sheath of deep, liquid purple satin. The dress plunged dramatically in the front and was slit impossibly high on one side, revealing a roadmap of older scars on her lean thigh and hip. One stiletto-clad foot, the exposed toe polished blood-red, was propped arrogantly on the edge of the table near Ingrid’s untouched water glass. Violet tapped a dagger-like, crimson fingernail against the glass. Tink. Tink. Tink.
"Still bleeding, Maiden?" Violet’s voice was a raspy purr, her green eyes fixed on the cutout above Ingrid’s pelvis. A knowing smirk played on her lips. "Heard they had to stitch you up like a torn sack after our little dance. Shame. Ruined good merchandise." She leaned forward slightly, the satin whispering. "Bet it clenches funny now, yeah? Like an empty purse."
Ingrid’s jaw tightened. She felt the phantom echo of knuckles grinding against raw tissue, the terrifying emptiness Violet had tried to carve into her. The memory brought a fresh, sharp twinge deep in her core, unrelated to the healing wounds. She forced her breathing even, the latex constricting her ribcage. "Still breathing, Violet. Which is more than I can say for your last opponent before me. What was her name again? Blurred into the rest, did she?"
Violet’s smirk didn’t falter, but her tapping finger stopped. A flicker of cold fury crossed her weathered face. "She knew the risks. We all do." She picked up Ingrid’s water glass, examining the condensation. "Unlike some fragile flowers who need ambulances and surgeons on standby."
A flashback hit Ingrid: the warm, insistent trickle down her inner thighs after the cage, the terrifying void. She clenched her good hand into a fist, the latex straining. "Fragile enough to snap your neck like a twig," she countered, her voice low and dangerously calm. She let her gaze drift pointedly to the faint, mottled bruising still visible beneath Violet’s foundation, circling her throat. "Or did they airbrush that out for your fan mags?"
Violet’s eyes narrowed. She slammed the water glass down hard on the table. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the cheap laminate. "Lucky shot," she hissed, the rasp turning venomous. "You caught the sash on the tear I opened. Don’t flatter yourself." Her stiletto scraped against the table edge, a sharp screech. "That egg was scrambled long before you got there, Maiden. I just stirred the pot."
The crude reference to her ravaged womb was a physical blow. Ingrid saw red. The sterile room seemed to pulse. Scarlett, seated beside her, a stoic pillar in severe black, placed a subtle, warning hand on her arm under the table. Ingrid shook it off. She leaned forward, mirroring Violet’s aggression, the razor-sharp edges of her gladiator straps catching the light. "Keep talking, Vi. Tell them how it felt when the cartilage went. Tell them how loud it crunched." Her voice was glacial. "Tell them what my forehead tastes like."
Violet’s composure cracked. A raw snarl twisted her face. She shoved her chair back with a clatter and stood, looming over the table in her towering heels. The purple satin clung to her wiry frame. "You think that cheap shot makes you queen?" she spat, droplets of spittle landing near the spilled water. "You’re just Scarlett’s broken toy now. She’ll pump you full of whatever it takes to keep you walking until you finally crack open on the mat." She jabbed her crimson nail towards Ingrid’s abdomen. "Insurance payout waiting to happen. Enjoy the latex while you can. It hides the scars, but it doesn't fix the mess inside."
Ingrid was on her feet a heartbeat later, ignoring the jagged flare of pain from her core. The folding chair clattered to the floor behind her. She slammed her braced hand flat on the table, making Violet flinch. The untouched water glass vibrated. Reporters leaned in, cameras whirring.
"Mess?" Ingrid’s voice cut through the sudden hush, low and vibrating with barely leashed fury. She took a step closer, the studded points on her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum. The harsh light glinted off the polished black latex and the metal on her boots. "You want to see a mess, Vi? Come close." She leaned in, her steely blue eyes inches from Violet’s startled green ones. The phantom scent of blood and sweat from the cage seemed to flood the sterile room. "Put that manicure near me again," she whispered, the words dropping like stones, "and I’ll shove these heels so far down your throat you’ll taste leather for a month." She glanced down pointedly at Violet’s exposed toes in the stilettos. "Starting with the pretty red ones."
Silence. Thick, charged. Violet stared, her breath coming fast, the earlier arrogance replaced by wary calculation. She saw the unvarnished promise of violence in Ingrid’s eyes, a violence honed sharp by pain and violation and the memory of grinding Violet’s face into the canvas.
Slowly, deliberately, Violet lowered her foot from the table. She straightened her dress, the satin rustling loudly in the quiet. A tight, humorless smile stretched her lips. "Big words for a woman held together by stitches and denial, Maiden." She picked up her clutch, the movement stiff. "See you in the cage. If you make it that far without springing a leak."
She turned on her stiletto heel and stalked towards the exit, the click-clack echoing. Ingrid watched her go, the phantom ache in her core a constant throb. She felt Scarlett’s assessing gaze, cold and calculative. The reporters erupted in shouted questions, a cacophony washing over her.
Ingrid ignored them. She looked down at her own hand still pressed flat on the wet tabletop. Slowly, deliberately, she picked up the water glass Violet had desecrated. She looked at it for a long moment – the condensation, the faint smear where Violet’s finger had tapped. Then, with a sudden, violent twist of her wrist, she shattered it against the edge of the table. Shards exploded, skittering across the laminate, water splashing her latex-clad legs. The room gasped.
She didn't look at the debris. She didn't acknowledge the stunned silence that followed the crash. She simply turned, the studded heels biting into the linoleum with each deliberate, painful step, and walked out, leaving the broken glass and Violet’s lingering poison behind. The echo of Violet’s words – broken toy, insurance payout – whispered in her ears, louder than the sudden uproar. The cage awaited. Scarlett’s cold gaze followed her out. The real fight, Ingrid knew, was just beginning. And the worst wounds weren't the ones that scarred.