Chapter 10: Bernice's guttural laugh echoes through the gym as she crushes Serenity's discarded sandal underfoot, spitting 'Your pretty feet won't save you next time' while Marcus watches his wife's face darken with murderous intent.
The smell of iodine and old blood was a permanent fixture in the back room of the gym. Marcus carefully wrapped Serenity’s right hand, the knuckles swollen into purple, mis-shapen lumps. She hadn’t made a sound while doing it, methodically pounding the brick wall behind the heavy bag until the skin split and the bones protested. Now, she just stared at the far wall, her jaw set, her breathing shallow. The silence between them was a physical thing, heavy with the memory of his pain and hers.
“You can’t even make a fist, Ren,” he said, his voice low. The gauze was stark white against her mottled skin.
“Don’t need to,” she murmured, her eyes distant. “Just need to be able to chop. To grab.”
“With what? Bone fragments?” He finished taping, his touch as gentle as he could make it. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to hold her. He was terrified of both impulses.
The door to the back room creaked open, slicing through the tension. Bernice stood there, silhouetted against the grimy light of the main gym. She didn’t look at Marcus. Her eyes, cold and flat, were locked on Serenity.
No words. Just a slow, deliberate motion.
Bernice reached into the deep pocket of her hoodie and pulled out a single, worn leather sandal. It was caked in dark, dried blood, the strap nearly torn from the sole. It wasn’t just any blood. It was Serenity’s. From The Pit.
With a flick of her wrist, Bernice sent the sandal arcing through the air. It landed on the concrete floor with a soft, pathetic slap, skidding to a stop at Serenity’s bare feet.
The message was clearer than any shouted threat. A rematch. No rules this time. The sandal was a receipt. A trophy. A promise.
“No,” Marcus said, the word leaving his mouth before he could even think. He stepped forward, putting himself between Bernice and his wife. “Get out.”
Bernice’s lip curled. She ignored him, her gaze still pinned on Serenity. “Three days. The cage. Or you crawl back to whatever suburb you came from and I keep this.” She patted her other pocket, presumably holding the second sandal.
“She’s not fighting you,” Marcus said, his voice rising. “Look at her hands! You see what she did to get ready for you? It’s over.”
For the first time, Bernice looked at him. A slow, contemptuous sweep from his head to his feet. “He still talking for you, princess? You need your keeper to tell the big, bad wolf to go away?”
Serenity hadn’t moved. She was staring at the bloodstained sandal, her expression unreadable. Her bandaged hands rested on her knees like useless tools.
“Ren, listen to me,” Marcus pleaded, turning to her, kneeling so he was in her eye line. “This is insanity. You go in that cage with her, hands like that, and she will take them from you. Permanently. This isn’t a fight. It’s mutilation.”
Serenity’s eyes lifted from the sandal to his face. He saw the calculation in them. The cold, hard math of risk and reward. Of pride and survival.
“I beat her once,” she said, her voice quiet.
“You had two working hands!” he exploded, his control snapping. He grabbed her wrists, careful to avoid the injured areas, his grip desperate. “This isn’t about being strong. This is about being stupid. Let it go.”
She looked down at where he held her. “You said you could take me at my weakest.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. He released her wrists as if burned. This was what she meant. This moment. Not the kick in the gym, but this choice right here. The choice to walk into a nightmare because backing down felt like a deeper kind of death.
“That’s not fair,” he whispered, his throat tight.
“Nothing is,” she replied. Her gaze shifted back to Bernice, who was still leaning in the doorway, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Well?” Bernice said. “You sending your husband out to fight for you? Or you gonna be a woman about it?”
Serenity pushed herself to her feet. She didn’t look at Marcus. She walked over to the sandal, her bare feet silent on the concrete. She stared down at it for a long three seconds. Then, with a movement that was all grace and defiance, she used her foot to flip the sandal over onto its sole.
She looked Bernice dead in the eye.
“Three days,” Serenity said, her voice cutting through the thick air. “Don’t be late.”
Bernice’s smirk widened into a full, ugly grin. She gave a slow, mocking clap, the sound sharp and hollow in the dusty room. “Knew you had a death wish, princess.” She pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave, her laughter a short, harsh bark that echoed down the corridor.
The moment she was gone, the air in the room turned leaden. Marcus could only stare at Serenity, at the defiant set of her shoulders and the ruined hands hanging at her sides. The bloodstained sandal lay between them like a condemned man’s last meal.
“What did you just do?” The words came out quiet, stripped of all their earlier anger, leaving only a raw disbelief.
Serenity finally looked at him. Her eyes were glassy with adrenaline and pain. “What I had to.”
“Had to?” He let out a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “Ren, you can’t open a jar of pickles right now. How are you going to fight Bernice in a cage? She’ll peel the skin from your bones.”
“She can try.” Serenity walked over to the heavy bag, her movement still fluid, a brutal ballet. She stared at its scarred surface, then leaned her forehead against the rough leather. A fine tremor ran through her body. “She doesn’t get to own me. Not my fear, not my past. Not my sandals.” She attempted a weak smile, but it was a ghost of her usual defiance.
Marcus moved behind her, close but not touching. He could feel the heat coming off her. “This isn’t about sandals. This is about you proving a point to a woman who isn’t worth the dirt on your feet. And you’re using your life as the argument.”
“It’s the only argument she understands.” Serenity pushed away from the bag, turning to face him. Her expression was terrifyingly serene. “I have three days.”
“To do what? Miracles?” He gestured wildly at her hands. “You need a doctor. You need rest. You need to call Vince and tell him you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”
“I need you to believe I can do this.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. It was the first real crack in her armor he’d seen since she kicked the air from his lungs. “Even when it looks impossible. Especially then.”
He wanted to scream. He wanted to gather her up and run. Instead, he looked at her bandaged, broken hands, then at the determined, desperate light in her eyes. She had already crossed a line he couldn’t follow. All that was left was to watch from the other side.
“Three days,” he repeated, the words tasting like ash. He had no choice now. He was already in the cage with her.