Chapter 35: The Aftermath
The roar of the crowd was a distant, dying storm. In its place, the hiss of the showerheads was a deafening white noise. Steam rose in thick clouds, clinging to the cracked tiles and the rusted metal lockers, blurring the edges of the world into a hazy, blood-washed nightmare.
Serenity stood under the nearest spray, her head bowed, hands braced against the slick, cold wall. The water hitting her back was a scalding counterpoint to the deep, internal cold that had taken root. It ran in pink rivulets down her legs, pooling around the drain with a faint, coppery scent that the steam couldn’t quite erase. She was trying to wash it away, all of it—the sweat, the blood, the feeling of Bernice’s body giving way under her hands.
Her sandals were on the floor next to her, the sturdy leather stained a dark, ugly brown. She’d have to scrub them later. Maybe just burn them.
A shift in the steam, a heavier, labored breathing from the other side of the room. Serenity didn’t need to look. She knew. The rhythm of Bernice’s pain was a song she’d learned by heart.
Bernice was propped up in a plastic chair someone had dragged in, her massive frame slumped. Two men who worked for Henderson were trying to staunch the bleeding between her legs with wads of gauze that turned red instantly. Her face was the color of ashes, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a permanent, silent snarl of agony.
“Get out,” Bernice rasped, the words bubbling slightly. The two men hesitated, then looked at each other and shuffled back, leaving the blood-soaked gauze on the floor.
The room was quiet, save for the water and Bernice’s ragged inhalations. Serenity kept her back turned, willing herself to be a statue, to feel nothing.
“You think you won?” Bernice’s voice was a dry rustle, but it cut through the steam. “You stupid bitch.”
Serenity didn’t move. The water beat down on her.
“You just bought yourself a different kind of hell.” A wet, coughing laugh. “You think this is over? You carved out a piece of me. Fine. But I’ve got pieces of you, too. Deeper than you know.”
Slowly, Serenity turned. Water streamed down her face, masking any other moisture there. She looked at the ruin of her rival, at the defiant, hateful gleam in Bernice’s eyes that even this couldn’t extinguish.
“You’re talking nonsense,” Serenity said, her own voice hoarse.
“Am I?” Bernice shifted, and a fresh wave of pain contorted her features. She gritted her teeth, riding it out. “That last fight. The one before this. When I put my boot on you. Felt something give, didn’t you? Felt a pop.”
Serenity went very still. The memory was a flash of white-hot, specific pain amidst the general brutality of that night. She’d told herself it was just a bad twist, something that would heal.
Bernice saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes and smiled, a terrible, bloodless stretch of skin. “Yeah. You felt it. Felt your insides shift. I knew it. Felt too good to be a nothing.” She took a shuddering breath. “You’re done, Jones. You just don’t know it yet. That thing I felt tear? It ain’t something that fixes itself. You’re a leaking vase. Hollowed out. One good kick… and you’ll prolapse everything you’ve got left onto the concrete.”
The words landed not like a threat, but like a diagnosis. A death sentence for the only life she’d ever known. The steam felt suddenly suffocating, the water like needles on her skin.
“You’re lying,” Serenity whispered.
“Wait and see,” Bernice crooned, her head lolling back against the chair. “Every time you cough too hard. Every time you try to lift something heavy. You’ll feel it. A little reminder of me. A little ticking time bomb I left inside you.” She closed her eyes, a phantom of a smile on her face. “You didn’t win. You just signed up for a slower, messier end.”
Serenity turned back to the wall, her stomach clenching. She pressed her forehead against the cold, wet tile. The victory money felt like ash in her mind. It would pay the bank. It would save the house. But Bernice was right. It had bought her a different kind of hell. A future of listening to her own body, waiting for it to betray her.
The shower door creaked open. Marcus stood there, his face pale, holding a clean towel. His eyes were wide, taking in the scene—Serenity under the spray, Bernice broken and bleeding in the chair, the pink water swirling down the drain.
“Ren?” he said, his voice soft, frayed at the edges.
She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. She just stood there, letting the water run, feeling the ghost of Bernice’s boot and the terrifying, intimate truth of her final threat taking root deep inside her, a seed of ruin planted in the very flesh she’d fought so hard to protect.