𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 {𝐬𝐱𝐬}

chapter one

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🥊 SANTANA "REAPER" BILES 🥊

SANTANA STANDS IN THE makeshift dressing room, which really is a storage closet that's been cleared out, only holding a small couch, desk, and mirror. Her brown eyes are low and focused, wrapping her hands for the fight. She grunts lowly when the tape doesn't cooperate, letting out a deep sigh when she realizes she'll have to start over. Unwrapping the messed-up part, she grabs the scissors and cuts it off before starting again.

This time goes much smoother and quicker. Once her hands are wrapped, she stares in the mirror, taking in her appearance. A couple of bruises and a busted lip are on show from her last fight—but she doesn't care. The other person looked way worse, and Santana got paid.

Knowing that it's almost time for the fight to start, she takes out her piercings. Does she have to take them out? No—but she's smart, unlike some of the others she's fought before. She's sure they learned pretty quickly that piercings while boxing is a big no.

Grabbing a hair tie, she pulls her locs back into a semi-tight bun.

Looking at the clock on the stained wall, she nods to herself. In a few minutes, she'll be called out, and just like every other night, right on time, she hears the screams from the crowd, soon followed by the ring announcer and loud music as he gets the crowd hyped.

Santana isn't worried about tonight's fight. She's never worried about any of her fights. Worrying does her no good and would only knock her off her game, so she pushes any thoughts and negative feelings away.

She gives herself one more glance over, slightly adjusting her sports bra and shorts, before opening the door and walking out of the room. Instantly, she's met with the smell of weed, cigarettes, and liquor. Cracked walls and busted concrete floors. She pays it no mind, already having fought here before. Plus, the only thing on her mind is winning and taking home the cash prize.

Reaching the door where she's supposed to walk out to the ring, she stands there cool and calm, listening to the crowd. They're louder than last time, and Santana already knows why. Last fight, she won by knockout—definitely drawing more attention. She doesn't mind, though. It only means a bigger cash prize.

The announcer's voice cracks through the speakers, hushed at first, then slowly rising as the crowd quiets.

"Ladies and gentlemen...The time has come."

His voice drips with anticipation—slow and sharp like a knife before the plunge.

"She's silent until the bell. Cold-blooded. Precise. A walking executioner in gloves. Standing six feet tall, weighing in at 172 pounds of unrelenting power... With a record of 22 wins, 19 by knockout... undefeated in the underground."

The crowd hollers, feet stomping, bodies pressing against the ring.

"She's knocked out champions. Ended careers. Shattered jaws and egos alike. From the Southside of Chicago—she's the one your fighter hopes to avoid. Calculated. Cruel. Beautifully brutal. You don't beat her. You survive her. She's the hitman of this underground... and baby, business is booming. Step light... because Death just laced her boots. Make. Way. For... THE REAPER—SANTANAAAAA BIIIILES!"

The crowd erupts. Screams bounce off the walls. Beer flies. Fists pound on chain-link.

Santana breathes in steady, unbothered and focused as she walks out. Hands by her side, her steps confident and quick as she steps into the ring. She goes to her corner and stands on the rope, quickly engaging with the crowd. They scream even louder, if possible.

She climbs down, turning her attention toward the announcer as he begins introducing her opponent.

The announcer smirks, pacing the center of the ring like a man who's seen blood on these mats one too many times.

"And in the opposite corner...She calls herself the Bombshell with a short fuse—'cause when she hits, it's lights out."

A few cheers erupt from one side of the crowd, loyal fans already on their feet.

"Standing five-foot-nine, weighing in at 168 pounds of raw, chaotic energy...With a record of 19 wins, 17 knockouts, and one highly disputed loss...She's known for putting speed before mercy. Aggression before strategy. Pain before pride."

The crowd grows louder. A few fans bang on the cage as the sound of bass-heavy trap thunders through the speakers.

"Hailing from East St. Louis—she don't talk much, but her fists don't need subtitles. They call her The Wreck, because once she starts, she don't stop. Explosive. Reckless. Dangerous as hell. Give it up for... TANYAAA 'THE WRECK' MORRIIIIISON!"

The lights flash red. Smoke rolls in thick and low. Tanya storms out fast, tossing her hoodie to the floor without breaking stride. She throws a few wild hooks in the air as she approaches the ring, her jaw clenched, gaze locked on Santana like a predator who finally found her prey.

She slides under the ropes and immediately starts pacing—circling the mat like a caged animal itching to snap.

Santana doesn't blink. She doesn't flinch. Just leans against her corner, eyes sharp and unreadable.

The crowd was about to get exactly what they came for.

Blood, violence, and a damn good fight.

Now that both fighters were in the ring the announcer quickly exited as the referee got in. He signals for both fighters to come to the center.

"Alright boxers, Let's clean fight, protect yourselves, and listen to my commands." He says looking at both of them. They give him a nod in understanding having heard the same thing plenty of times.

"Touch gloves."

Santana puts up her gloves giving Tanya no reaction when she touches gloves aggressively.

"The wreck my ass." Santana thinks to herself backing up a bit putting her guard up while the referee moves out of the way.

ROUND ONE

The bell rings sharp and loud—like a gunshot in a silent field—and the crowd responds instantly with a roar that shakes the old foundation of the underground arena.

Tanya comes out hot, exactly like her nickname promised. She throws two fast jabs and a looping right hook. Santana reads it early, ducks under, pivots, and lands a stiff jab to Tanya's ribs that echoes like a whip crack.

"OHHH!" the crowd howls.

Tanya grunts, but comes back swinging. She's relentless, throwing punches in bunches, trying to overwhelm Santana with sheer chaos.

Santana takes a few on the arms, eats a glancing one to the cheekbone, and finally slips the next wild left. She steps in with brutal calm and slams a hook into Tanya's side. Tanya stumbles a step. Santana doesn't chase. She waits.

Measured. Lethal.

By the halfway mark, the round is messy. Tanya is throwing wild, crowd-pleasing combos, but Santana's landing the cleaner, heavier shots. She's cutting the ring off, punishing the body every time Tanya overextends.

The bell ends the round just as Santana catches Tanya with a short left uppercut under the chin—enough to make her knees dip.

"She wobbled!" someone screams from the crowd.

IN-BETWEEN ROUND ONE

Tanya staggers back to her corner, breathing hard. Her coach immediately grabs her mouthpiece, fans her with a towel, gives her water, and starts barking instructions.

"Stop headhunting! She's baiting you! Go to the body!"

Across the ring, Santana walks to her corner—alone.

She sits on the stool she dragged in herself. No water. No one to tend to the red welt forming above her right brow. Just her, breathing evenly through her nose, eyes on Tanya.

She doesn't need a pep talk. She's already dissecting Tanya's rhythm, remembering how her right shoulder twitches before every left.

The crowd buzzes with energy, and people in the front rows yell to each other over the noise.

"Yo, Reaper came to kill tonight!"

"Did you see that uppercut? I felt that shit in my soul!"

ROUND TWO

Tanya comes out a little slower, respect now riding her movements—but still aggressive.

They trade early. Tanya lands a hard right to the jaw. Santana absorbs it and answers with a three-punch combo—left hook to the liver, right cross to the mouth, then another shot to the ribs.

Tanya lets out a low, involuntary grunt and clinches. The ref separates them.

The next exchange, Tanya throws a slick uppercut, finally catching Santana clean under the chin. The crowd gasps. Santana stumbles back two steps. First real hit she's eaten tonight.

Tanya rushes in.

Bad idea.

Santana plants her feet and counters with a devastating right cross. Blood sprays from Tanya's nose. The crowd explodes.

"LET'S GOOOO!"

They brawl for the last thirty seconds, both trading violent, bruising shots. Santana's mouth is bleeding now, her lip split again. Tanya's nose is broken, leaking steady red.

The bell rings—and they stare at each other for a long second before backing up.

IN-BETWEEN ROUND TWO

Tanya collapses onto her stool. Her corner works fast—stuffing gauze up her nose, icing her jaw.

"You gotta move your damn feet!" her trainer yells, slapping her thigh. "You give her a second to think, and she'll take your head off!"

Tanya spits blood into a bucket.

Meanwhile, Santana wipes her mouth with her forearm. No one in her corner to stitch her lip or offer words. She leans on the ropes, head down for a moment, then slowly rises.

The lights feel hotter. The room is getting louder. A chant begins—low at first, then growing:

"Rea-per! Rea-per! Rea-per!"

ROUND THREE

Tanya changes her tactics. She starts circling, using more footwork, throwing feints.

Santana waits. Then when Tanya lunges, Santana ducks, steps inside, and unleashes hell.

A vicious flurry—right to the jaw, left hook to the ribs, overhand right to the temple.

Tanya staggers.

Santana doesn't stop.

She corners her and goes to work, tight hooks, body shots, uppercuts. Tanya's arms are up but loose. The body shots have taken a toll.

She tries to clinch—Santana shoves her off and rocks her with a short elbow before stepping back, arms raised, ready for more.

Ref warns her: "Keep it clean."

But it's the underground. And the crowd loves the blood.

"FINISH HER!" someone screams.

Tanya swings wildly, misses—and Santana ducks, then steps into a brutal left hook.

CRACK.

Tanya's mouthpiece flies.

She crashes to the mat.

Crowd erupts.

The ref jumps in kneeling next to Tanya then begins counting.

"ONE! TWO!"

Tanya twitches. She tries to sit up but her arms don't follow.

"FIVE! SIX! SEVEN!"

She's groaning, blood dripping from her nose and mouth.

"NINE... TEN!"

It's over.

The bell rings and the room shakes.

The ref raises Santana's hand. She doesn't smile. Doesn't gloat. Just nods once.

Victory was expected.

The announcer shouts over the chaos, "AND STILL UNDEFEATED—THE REAPER, SANTANAAAAA BILES!!"

She steps out of the ring, mouth still bleeding, body bruised, adrenaline still pumping as the crowd parts for her like she's divine.

She walks alone back to the room. Blood dripping from her lips, face pulsing from the new bruises forming. She ignores it walking into her room quickly throwing on her black sweatpants and hoodie. She doesn't bother unwrapping her hand knowing she'll do it once she gets home. Slipping into her slides, she grabs all of her things placing them back into her book bag. Santana puts the book bag on and pulls her hood up before exiting the room.

The crowd's roar still echoes in her ears as Santana steps into the dark hallway, hoodie pulled low over her brow. Her bookbag feels heavier than usual, maybe it's the weight of the fight, or maybe it's the way her ribs ache every time she breathes.

She doesn't wince. She never does.

Blood still dries at the corner of her lip. The copper taste sits thick in her mouth, but she doesn't wipe it away. She passes a couple of guys leaning against the wall smoking, one of them says something under his breath about her being a "beast." She ignores it.

She took the back route through the venue, past the broken vending machine and the busted-ass water fountain that hadn't worked since last summer. The hallway now smelled like mildew, piss, and victory.

She made her way toward the office—if you could call it that—a little room with yellowed blinds and a flickering overhead light. Santana knocked once, pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

Behind a metal desk sat Big Mike, tonight's money man. Thick neck. Stained shirt. Greasy fingers counting bills.

He glanced up and grinned through gold teeth.

"Hell of a show, Reaper. Girl was twitchin' before she hit the floor," he laughed, thumbing through a stack of hundreds. "You know you bad luck for these bitches, right?"

Santana didn't respond. She just stared, silent, the split in her lip drying with every breath.

Mike finally slid a thick envelope across the table toward her.

"Clean ten. You could've walked outta here with seven if she stayed on her feet."

Santana picked up the envelope, not even checking the bills inside. She just tucked it in her bookbag with the same coldness she fought with.

"Next time's next week," Jay added. "Word is, someone new coming in from Detroit looking for a real one. Could be you."

She gave a slow nod, only halfway listening. "Text me."

Then she left the room.

Outside, the air hit her face like a slap—cool and sticky, heavy with smoke from the food stand across the street. She didn't go that way. She wasn't hungry. Her jaw hurt too much to chew.

She walked alone through the neighborhood, blood and dirt dried on her knuckles. Her bag dug into her shoulder, but the weight of the prize money grounded her. Some debt was paid off. Rent was covered now. The water bill, too. Maybe even groceries.

Still wasn't enough.

The walk to her house didn't take long. The streets around here were quiet this time of night, save for the distant bass from a passing car and the random shouts from some drunk across the block.

Santana's place sat at the end of a cracked street—a small, two-bedroom house her father left behind. The porch light didn't work, and the steps creaked under her weight. But the door was still solid, still locked, still hers.

She keyed in, pushed inside, and locked the door behind her.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and dust. It was clean, like always. But bare. No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks. No plants.

Just what she needed. Nothing more.

Her boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. She dropped her bag by the couch and headed to the bathroom. Stripped off her sports bra and shorts. Stood naked in the mirror, staring at her body like it was a map of everything she'd survived. Bruises on her ribs. Scratches down her side. Her lip, split. Knuckles feeling raw as she unwrapped them.

She didn't wince.

She turned the water on hot, stepped into the shower, and let the steam swallow her whole.

Almost half an hour later, a towel slung over her shoulder, she sat on the edge of her bed in the dark. The small TV across the room was off. She didn't feel like pretending to care about anything on it tonight.

That's when she heard a knock at her door. Furrowing her eyebrows she gets up to see who it is. Opening the door no one's is there but a black card is on the ground.

She looked around before picking it up.

Glossy. Thick. Clean. One name and a number printed in silver across the surface.

Nothing else.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then walked back to her room, card still in her hand, and sat in silence.

Her father's old photo sat in the top drawer of her dresser, untouched. The same one he gave her after her first fight in the alley behind their old apartment. She hadn't looked at it in years.

Tonight, though—something about the card made her pull it out.

She sat with it in her lap, chest tight.

She wasn't just fighting for money.
She wasn't just fighting to survive.
She was fighting to never be powerless again.

And maybe, just maybe, this card...
...was the next step in making sure of that.

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