Constant 3, Chapter 6-3: Empyrean (Patreon)

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Three: Empyrean           

Through the seething crowd, anonymously threading the frenzied press of bodies, frantic limbs and sprayed sweat, roar of guitars, flayed drums and howled lyrics. Past the crowded bars, spilled beer, and the trio of guys slamming jellied shots off the belly of a serving girl laying supine across a counter. Circling downwards into deeper levels of The Pit, cast iron beams and industrial exposed brick, where apocalyptic lighting bled from every crevice and the music turned dirge, then darker still as abyssal figures swayed and swirled to the subterranean throb of an incoherent roar.

            Then, beyond The Pit: an unmarked door along an unremarkable corridor, distinguished only by a singular bronze plaque reading The Empyrean.  The door opened at a touch of my phone, and I passed through.

            Here, walls of smooth grey concrete muted the music from above and now the lighting was recessed and subtle, pale glimmerings picking out silent paths through the dark. I entered through a simple lobby. An attendant scanned my phone and pointed me down a dimly lit corridor leading to private rooms and exclusive bars, past nondescript doors that remained closed and mysterious. Eerily quiet compared to the pandemonium above, I saw few people between rooms. There was a very attractive woman in her thirties, ebony-skinned, dangling diamond earring and absolutely stunning in a gold dress, who smiled knowingly at me as she passed; and a neatly turned-out waiter, carrying a pair of steaming milky-white cocktails on a gilded platter. Then, a tall man, very elderly and very distinguished-looking with a cane and top hat. He ignored me until directly opposite, and then barked—actually barked at me, waggled his tongue, teeth bared in a wolf-like grin and leered hideously at me, before resuming his quiet, measured walk, cane clicking against the concrete.

            In one room, shadowed clientele sat in semi-circular booths facing a short stage, gleaming brass pole and the woman who danced there, sinuous writhing for a silent audience. Another room was softly lit by a crystalline chandelier and string lights, in which refined men in expensive suits stood in quiet conversation with partners in elegant evening dress—by all appearances, a perfectly ordinary if expensively detailed bar—but for the chains and cuffs, fetishistic serving maids, and men and women tightly bound, restrained and displayed as art, or furniture.

            A third cavernous room, the final experienced that evening, proved as much dungeon as it was dancefloor: lofty cages and raised stages with poles and dancers, all twisting in ecstatic passion to manic beats; chains like abattoir meat-hooks dangled out of the darkness, suspended from an unseen ceiling far above; and scattered instruments of bondage holding men and women—but mostly women—tied and gagged.

            At each threshold traversing both The Pit above and The Empyrean below, I was confronted by broad-chested bouncers in tight shirts barring my way. They scanned my phone. Each time, the same green-light bleep. Their eyes widened with surprise, or amusement; always, condescension and once, a sneer as they waved me through. Clearly, I had license to be here but judging by their reaction, I didn’t belong.   

            And yeah, these rooms of fantasy, fetish and flesh? They weren’t Cindy’s kind of place, not at all, and the calculating looks tracking my passage tightened my stomach. To be honest, this wasn’t my kind of place, either. I wanted to return to the ordinary, noisy hedonism of upstairs, where people drank and drugged themselves stupid, picked fights, fucked, and moshed to angry music.

            It’s not like, as David, I hadn’t been to kinky bars and fetish clubs before. Like that time NeoPharm stationed me in Japan for a couple of months. This was several years ago. There’d been a hostess bar, Momo. This client, Satoshi, pervy little bastard he was, kept taking me there; as a foreigner, I couldn’t get past the front door without him. It was this swanky little bar fifteen stories up a neon-lit Ginza back-alley. They kept a bottle of vintage brandy with Satoshi’s name on it behind the counter and played Jazz on old-fashioned vinyl. Pretty young girls in short skirts sat with us. They kept us company, fetched us drinks, made us feel—manly, I guess, though I found the whole thing indescribably weird. Especially since, every half-hour or so, the music changed to some kind of pop-fuelled saccharine drivel and the hostesses danced. They’d strip off their tops and for an extra fee, you could grab their tits. Ten minutes later, it switched back to Jazz and polite conversation, they hiked their dressed back over their breasts and everyone acted like nothing happened.

            And of course, back home there were strip clubs on work nights out, obviously, normal work-culture bullshit, and a few BDSM palaces over the years, usually on dates with girls I’d just met, once or twice with a colleague looking to shock or surprise. Unavoidable, in a way: these places had grown increasingly popular over the past decade, become normalised, bondage-themed bars and that kind of shit, offering that extra little thrill for those who needed it, consensual kinky fun.

            And—fine, I guess; not my thing but live and let live, and if some girl wants me to tie a collar around her neck and lead her by a leash, then hey, why not? So long as no one tries to slap a collar onto me, right?

            But fucking hell, did it ever hit differently now, and it occurred to me in a way it couldn’t have a year ago that in all those places of kinky fun, it was almost always the girls who ended up tits out with arms tightly bound behind their back, or collared, or hobbled, or gagged for the night. And that’s what I saw in the burning eyes of the men I passed: an intense desire to tie me up and bring me to heel.

            Their look left me entirely too aware of my visible femininity. Anxiety gnawed at my belly. With each step, I felt the presence of breasts and especially of the smoothness between my thighs as never before. By this point I’d only had that goddamn prosthetic vagina for a couple of weeks. And I could see all too clearly etched in the faces of passing men what they thought of my tits and how they hungered for a glimpse of that gap between my legs, yearned to—stuff it full, restrict my autonomy over my own sex, and take control of something I hadn’t even come to terms with myself.

            No wonder I felt on edge, then, torn between anger and fear and—arousal, yes, and it fucking killed me to admit it, but all that naked flesh, those beautiful women, the air heavy with it—with sex—I hadn’t gotten off since coming back from the Clinic and felt almost drunk with need as I scurried through that last room.

            Youthful dancers thrashed about under flashing lights at the feet of caged or staged beauties. Scattered among them, those in bondage: tight corsets and hooded gags, arms bound and tied to those stainless steel chains disappearing into the darkness overhead; or full-body suits, heavy belts restraining them in neat, wiggling packages on raised platforms between the swaying masses.

            There was this one girl though, bent at the waist over a metal pole, neck and wrists in wooden stocks, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly. She tossed her head, long blonde hair swirling about her face, blindfolded. This girl was slender, tits hanging freely and her skin shone under a sheen of sweat. A pair of very high heels thrust her ass up in the air and was all she wore other than a lacy thong, purple and satin shiny. A man, beer in hand, idly smacked her bum, held his hand there for a moment, massaging, smacked her again and walked on. She moaned, glossy lips pursed around some kind of gag. The sound could have been one of pain, or pleasure.

            I stood and stared. My face burned beneath my hoodie, heart hammering in my chest. Looking at her, I felt the phantom memory of tight corsetry and cuffs at my wrist, the ache of my arms bound high behind my back: the Sin-DI photoshoot at the Clinic. With the memory came a visceral sense of humiliation, and suddenly an image of myself in this girl’s position seared itself into my mind. It was so easy: the blonde hair, the full lips; and for a moment it seemed I felt the implacable grip of wooden stocks at my wrist and neck, the heavy weight of pendulous breasts. The vulnerability, the shame—and the excitement; for fuck me if I didn’t suddenly feel an urgent swelling in the crotch—experienced as wetness—and shivered.

            “Beautiful, don’t you think?” spoke a voice at my ear. Distracted by the woman, I failed to notice the man’s approach. He was tall and handsome, with a thin moustache and narrow chin, dressed in what looked like a contemporary adaptation of a Victorian man’s suit, waistcoat and thin chain disappearing into an inner pocket. I felt his other hand hovering at the small of my back—not quite touching—yet still hot. In the other hand, he held a leather collar, midnight black and heavy, steel D-rings sparking under flashing lights. “I have a spare with me tonight,” he said, and indicated an empty stock near the restrained woman. “Perhaps you are curious?”

            I gaped at him and—ran away, imagining rather than hearing his laugh.

            Silence followed as I passed along dark corridors illuminated only by the faint gleaming of recessed spotlights along the floor. Still reeling with arousal and fear, I took a deep breath at the final door.

            The door opened onto a well-lit room. No half-naked girls here, or leather straps or stripper poles or stages: just a simple wood-panelled space, cozy enough with some pool tables, and what looked to be a well-supplied bar with a scattering of tables and chairs and a few cozy nooks. It gave every appearance of being an ordinary pub, were it not windowless and deep underground. Those earlier rooms felt heavy with sex, privilege, and the pursuit of carnal pleasures; here, the atmosphere was entirely different. More relaxed and casual, certainly, but also more casual in its threat: there was more than a hint of promised violence in the air, as a half-dozen men turned to face me as I entered.

            Guards, not bouncers: these guys wore suits, cut loosely to muscular bodies, and colourful silk shirts. They weren’t particularly large, at least compared to the bouncers along the way, but every one of them had the cold, hard eyes of men entirely comfortable with pain and its expert application.

            The closest one looked me over, chuckled. “Hey, bunny. Take a wrong turn?”

            I was way over my head here. For the first time that night, I felt a genuine thrill of danger. Any one of these guys, individually, I felt confident I could take. Maybe even two of them. But six? No fucking way.

            “I’ve got a meeting,” I said.

            “I’m sure you do.” The man looked amused. His eyes never strayed. “But it ain’t here.”

            I dug my phone out my pocket. He didn’t react. It’s not like I would’ve gotten this far with a weapon down my jeans. “Here. Scan it.”

            “Nah.” He stepped closer, slowly shaking his head. “Hop along now, bunny,” he said. “Go dance upstairs.” The indifferent coolness of his voice deepened into something nastier, and an unpleasant little smile crawled along his lips. “Or maybe we’ll find you a nice little cage down here.”

            I took a step back, quickly scanning the room. There was a featureless metal door, notable for its functional ugliness, with a digital access pad at the far end—probably the one I wanted—flanked by two ordinary, wooden doors. Half the men were still sitting, though watching with amusement. Two stood by a pool table; I’d interrupted their game. Then this guy in front of me, staring as though undressing me and imagining all the terrible things he’d enjoy doing to Cindy’s naked body.

            Instinct compelled me forward, to tear this motherfucker to the ground. Take my chances with the others. I’d have an advantage—a fleeting one—of surprise. It wouldn’t last, maybe long enough to reach the two by the pool table. Arm myself with a pool cue. And then—

            Fight off three more goons, single-handedly—assuming there weren’t even more men, possibly armed, waiting beyond those two other closed doors?

            What the fuck was I thinking?

            But I couldn’t pass up my chance, here. I needed this meeting; I was owed this meeting. The fact the code sent to my phone got me this far meant I was expected. This dickwad was the first guy to not scan my phone as a matter of routine.

            So. Maybe that was the game. The guy I was meeting knew I was coming. But it’d been five years since we’d last spoke and I’d looked… differently, then. He wanted to know who exactly he was dealing with. Dozens of cameras must have tracked my approach. He must be wondering who the hell this young girl was, winding her way through his underground pleasure palace. Wanted to see how I handled this situation. It was a test.

            I fucking hated tests.

            Okay. So, if violence wasn’t the way forward maybe Cindy offered an alternative.

            “Would you like that?” I pushed back my hoodie and swept my hair loose. I’d braided it into a long plait—to the best of my ability, anyways, which wasn’t saying much—and the single long strand dropped over one shoulder to my waist. I stepped closer, smiled. “Me?” I licked my lips, and suddenly wished for a little gloss. “In a cage?”

            He hesitated. For the first time, he looked to the other goons. That was my chance, his moment of distraction. Quick jab to the throat, knife the collarbone, snap kick to the balls—but, no; subtlety was better. There was a lot to read in that guy’s backwards glance: his sudden discomfort, and uneasiness around women—especially a pretty girl—a confident pretty girl—this guy might be a fucking bruiser, but he was a total noodle around the ladies.

            I twisted my braid around a finger and stuck my chest out a little.

            One of the men shrugged, the two over by the pool table grinned and made little ‘go on’ gestures. “Yeah,” he said.

            Stepping a little closer, I looked up at this guy through half-lidded eyes, stuck the tip of my tongue out between my teeth. “Tell me,” I said.

            “Huh?”

            Jesus, this guy. “What would you do?” I was close, now, enough to smell his sickly aftershave, and see just how young this fuckwit was. Hair buzzcut short, regimental tattoo at the wrist and neck—bit of an eastern European look to him, maybe a recent military discharge after all that shit over there, finding new work in all the wrong places. Early twenties at most; Jesus, this could’ve been me, after Sakura, in a different life: young thug enforcer for some underworld bastard. “How would you treat me?”

            “Baby,” he said, closing the final distance between us, “I’d….” and he faltered. He went red in the face. Again, he glanced back over his shoulder towards his allies.

            “Fuck’s sake,” one of the guys called. “Jez, shit, tell the bitch what’d you do to her!”

            “Yes, Jez,” I purred. “Tell me.” I tickled his chin with the tip of my braid. I don’t know if I could’ve stomached being this close to this bastard had it not been for Dan, for Chad, for those weeks at the Clinic, and especially for recent nights out with the girls. As it was, it took all my restraint to not knee this guy in the crotch.

            He grabbed me by the wrist. His grip hurt and I winced. He yanked my hand away from his face. Now, he frowned and looked angry. “You’re laughing at me,” he growled.

            I shook my head. “Not me,” I said. “They’re the ones laughing.”

            “You’re making me look like a fool.”

            Now I laughed. “You don’t need me for that.”

            “Bitch.” He pulled his open hand back to smack me.

            “Darius,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “He’s expecting me.”

            Jez froze and paled; I swear the temperature dropped a degree, and the guys who heard me, the ones who were sitting, half rose from their seat.

            “You’re one of Darius’ girls?” Jaz whispered, and his eyes widened with fear. He let go of me. I rubbed at my wrist. “Why didn’t you say so?”

            What the fuck, ‘Darius’s girl’? Fuck that shit, but if it got me through the door…. “You didn’t let me.” I poked him in the chest, hard. “Jez.”

            He paled even further at hearing his name at my lips. “Uh—you don’t have to mention…” he trailed off, tried again: “You don’t look like….”

            “No, she doesn’t,” one of the other men said. He was older, and warier, and eyed me suspiciously. “At all.”

            Meeting his gaze cooly, I said, “Yeah, well, here I am,” and nodded towards the door. “And he’s waiting. You want to keep him waiting?”

            The older man considered this. He turned to one of the other guys. “Get the boss,” he said.

            One of the guy knocked at one of the side doors. There was a short wait, and the door opened.

            My heart skipped at beat at the sight of him. The guy who stepped through was massive, just under two meters and built like a fucking brick shithouse. Pale blue eyes beneath short cropped blond hair took in the scene with an attitude of casual benevolence. Unlike the others, he was dressed casually, well-worn jeans and a leather jacket over a very faded Metallica t-shirt stretched taut across his chest. The shirt was from their ’28 Burnout tour, the band’s last. I suppressed a smile at the sight of it, couldn’t believe he still wore that relic.

            “What is being the problem?” the guy asked.

            “Sorry to bother you, Dee,” the guard said. “It’s this chick, says she’s here for Darius.”

            “Darius very busy right now,” he said, the ‘v’ and ‘r’ betraying his Polish ancestry. His accent was thick—surprisingly so, heavier than I remembered. He also looked older than I’d have expected. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”

            “She’s got a pass.”

            ‘Dee’ crossed over to me. I supressed a powerful instinct to hide or cover up as he checked me out. He liked what he saw—even dressed down, minimal makeup and basic clothes, I’m a hottie—but he didn’t know me, there wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition in those pale blue eyes.

            “Show me,” he said.

            I felt very small, showing him the digital code on my phone. He scanned it with his. It beeped. The tone was different than before. His eyes narrowed slightly. Before, there’d been a sort of tolerant benevolence to his face, an innate kindness shining through. Now he regarded me impassively, and his tone was strangely neutral.

            “Turn around,” he said. “Go home, girl.”

            I blew a stray bang out of my face. “What’d the pass say?”

            “No.”

            “Bullshit. Show me.”

            “My instructions are to not let you pass,” he said. He made a vague gesture at the way I was dressed. “Not dressed like this.”

            “Excuse me?”

            His cheeks reddened, very slightly. With a jerk of his thumb, he indicated one of the other doors. “Changing room,” he said. “I escort you through only after you changed into suitable clothes.”

            “You’re joking.”

            Now looking more than a little embarrassed, he rubbed at the back of neck. “No.” He grimaced and added, “You should be going home. This is no place for young woman—”

            “—like me?” I puffed out my cheeks in annoyance. “You don’t know me, man. But, fine, whatever.” Ignoring the leering grins of the other goons, I crossed over to the changing room and pushed through. A minute later I stormed back out. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

            The men burst into laughter, except for Jez, who stared hungrily, rubbing forefinger and thumb across his chin.  The man they called Dee winced. “Boss prefers his girls dressed particular way. Suitable for club.”

            That changing room was sumptuously appointed, well-lit and full of mirrors and comfortable padded stools and benches. Plentiful and quality cosmetics on the counters, and laid out carefully on shelves and velvet cushions, exquisite lingerie: lacy bodies, basques, corselettes, bras and garter belts and stockings in a rainbow of colours, some shimmering with inlaid patterns. Bad enough in itself, and maybe I could’ve just about stomached wearing that shit if it got me through that door. But all those collars and cuffs, harnesses and leashes, the latex bodysuits and black leather masks dangling from hooks on the wall? Not in a thousand fucking years. No man was tying me up, leading me around like a fucking dog.

            “No,” I said.

            He shrugged. “Then go home.”

            “No.”

            “Then I escort you out.”

            “No.”

            He sighed, pinched at a spot between both eyes. “You have alternative?”

            And then suddenly, yes, I did. Fuck this consolatory Cindy bullshit; it was my turn, and sometimes violence really was the answer.

            A slow grin spread across my lips as I walked up to him, straight up to him, rolling my shoulders as I went, giving my arms a little shake to loosen them up. He watched, bemused, until I stood directly in front of him, staring up at this massive mountain of a man.

            He was a tough bastard. One of the toughest I’d ever met.

            “You and me, big man,” I said, and poked him square in the chest. “One on one. You knock me out, make me yield—I’ll do whatever you want. You can toss me out on the sidewalk. Pop me into one of those cages out there. Or drag me back into that room and shove me into whatever outfit you want, lead me on a leash to see your fucking pervert boss.

            “But if I win, you’re my escort, yeah? You see me through to see Darius, and back out again, safely.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Kumasz?”

            I expected to have to goad him into it. Taunt him, take a couple jabs at his masculinity. He’s a big guy, and I’m a small girl, and he’s got to be thinking I’m some loony bitch jacked up on some crazy shit or something. Also, this guy, he’s never been into hitting girls, or picking fights that aren’t fair. Real sense of honour, I guess you could say.

            Which is why I was more than a little taken aback when he nodded his head, once. “Yes. Understand,” he said. He nodded once more, as though warming to the idea, even as he took off his jacket and tossed it to one side. “Yes. This is better. Simple.”

            And, Jesus, his biceps were the size of my fucking thighs, he’s absolutely massive, neck like a tree trunk and probably fifty kilos on me, reach and height, too. I stepped back to put distance between us, and the other goons formed a circle around us, shoving chairs and tables out of the way. I ditched the hoodie, and under I’ve got a tight tank top over my sports bra. Some of the guys hooted and catcalled, told me to keep going until a glare from my opponent silenced them.

            He looked at me quizzically. “Sure about this?”

            “Yeah, you?”

            He shrugged.

            “’Cuz you can still back down.” I flicked my braid over my shoulder. “I won’t go easy on you.”

            He removed his watch, slipped a ring from his finger and put them to one side.

            “Ditch the t-shirt, too,” I said. “That thing’s a classic. Be a shame if it got ruined.”

            He considered for a moment and then nodded once again. He took the shirt off, and beneath he’s absolutely ripped, washboard abs and pecs like sculpted marble. Scars, too, pale memories of old fights crisscrossing his body, a match for the ones I once bore. Christ, he’s in amazing shape for a guy in his forties. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Just another fucking reminder of how much I’ve changed, all curves and softness where once I’d had a physique to match his.

            “Now your turn, toots!” one of the guards calls out. They laughed. My opponent waved them down. An expectant hush descended over the room. He faced me with utter seriousness. It was an unexpected show of respect, but then again, Dimitrios had always been a classy guy.

            He nodded to one of the men. “Give signal.”

            The world narrowed down to the space between him and me—it’s just the two of us—and suddenly, it’s like I’m seventeen again, he’s twenty and we’re squaring off under Sakura’s watchful eye. I imagine her in the corner, red lips and white face inscrutable, judging, withholding her favour. The others are there too, Sophiya and Emma, and yes, Darius too. They want Dimitrios to win. I want him to win, too, though he won’t. He was always my favourite to fight. And once, long ago, a good friend.

            Giddy joy bubbled up inside me. I’m going to win this fight. I felt this with absolute certainty. He was bigger and stronger and if I’m brutally honest, a better fighter. Even back in the day, I always felt he had the edge in skill. By the looks of things, he never retreated into corporate middle management but maintained that lifestyle of danger and violence that keeps those skills honed and ready.

            And yet, he was going to lose this fight. First, because he’s got a thing about hitting girls; no matter how hard Sakura kicked his ass, he never overcame his reluctance. Second, because he holds back: bigger and stronger than me, both now and back in the day, but he lacked that killer instinct. And finally, because he’s an open book. I’ve always had a feel for reading an opponent. But with Dimitrios, I could see his every move coming from a mile away. To put it another way: I’ve never lost a fight against Dimitrios, not one that mattered.

            Add to that the element of surprise, and the poor bastard won’t know what hit him.

            There was a pause.

            The man shouted: go.

            And fuck me, the surprise was all mine as Dimitrios surged forward, no hesitation, no holding back, revealing nothing, unloading a savage cross with his left that would’ve ended the fight then and there had it hit.  Instinct alone saved me, sidestepping but he’s already following with an uppercut, Christ he’s fast—clipped my shoulder—sent me staggering—and he’s there with a low roundhouse kick. I just about catch it on the forearms. That fifty-kilo differential sent me flying. I slammed into a wall, slumped to one knee. A moment later, the pain hit, exploding across shoulder and arms and back. Then he’s on me again, punching down, I flung myself away, hit the ground, rolled out—heavy stomp where I’d been a split second ago—and dove beneath a pool table and popped up the other side.

            Jesus—fuck!—he wasn’t holding back. No hesitation about hitting a girl, either. Guess twenty years can change a guy. Now Dimitrios approached a little more cautiously, looking somewhat perplexed I was still standing. He sidled around the table, and I went the other way. The other guys, they shifted around us, and I heard their hoots and derision, cries of bitch, beat her, put her in her place, something about get her, collar her, and a leash, and a flash of Jez, a hungry sneer to his lips.

            “Yield,” he said. “Put on clothes for Darius.”

            “You put on the fucking clothes,” I muttered.

            We circled the table another time. It was a short breather, but enough for me to find my equilibrium. He’d never been great at controlling tempo. Now, he was getting annoyed—I could see that—and the old instinct returned. When he faked left and circled right, I saw it coming and danced the other way. And when, releasing a sigh he stepped forward and grabbed the table, I also saw it coming. But dear God—that thing must’ve weighed a couple hundred kilos, but all it took was a heaving grunt and he toppled that thing like it was barely there. It crashed to the ground and he leaped over it, lunging towards me.

            I danced back. I was small, sure, tiny compared to this guy, but also fast as fuck, a nimble little bitch and when he threw his punch, I slipped under it. He threw another jab, another and then a cross, followed with an uppercut. I leaned left, right, ducked, and darted forward. He dropped his elbow, nearly tagged me, but I twisted aside and popped out behind him. Slapped his belly with an open palm as I went by, smacked his ass, too, then fell back, grinning.

            Now the watching men went silent.

            Dimitrios frowned. I kept my distance. I didn’t try and hit him; what would be the fucking point? I weighed all of fifty kilos, it’s not like I was going to knock him over. Maybe a lucky strike to the solar plexus, finger jab to a nerve bundle—but getting past that reach of his? Yeah, one mistake and I’d be leashed and collared or worse, because every second we fought, he got more and more pissed off.

            I could play the long game, though, tire him out, wear him down. Most fights don’t last long because fighting’s exhausting, but I felt as though I had limitless energy, like I could dance around this guy all day. It was exhilarating.

            After that fucker Fosters killed me—the bastard quite literally killed me—yeah, my confidence took a hit, right? A month later, I woke up Cindy, all tits and spindly arms, weak and soft. That almost killed me all over again. At first, I couldn’t manage a single push up, for chrissake. But then, I did. And the next day, another. And every day since that first test of my physical limits, I’d been working out, pushing myself through old routines. Runs at the old Olympic park near home, early mornings at the gym at work, and again most night at home. Absolutely crushing, at first, the stark reality of how much I’d lost, how weak I’d become. But week by week, I felt some of the old strength return.

            I didn’t bulk up. My body stayed soft and winsome—if anything, grew more feminine over time, bigger boobs and wider hips—hair longer and lustrous, fuller lips, curvier. Yet pacing the growth of this radiant femininity, I also grew stronger. I don’t understand it. Clearly, some side effect of the same process the Clinic used to save my life, heal my body and make me female. I tried not to think about it and instead, just kept working out every morning and day by day, felt myself grow strong again.

            How strong?

            No fucking idea. I’d love to test those limits, but not against this guy unless I had to, not under the watchful eye of security cameras.

            Now, Dimitrios advanced warily. He favoured his left leg very slightly. Something in his hip, his knee—no surprise there: man in his forties, a physically active life? Probably lives with all sorts of aches and pains.

            I did, not so long ago. I circled and kept my distance, waited for him to make the first move. Again, he feinted right, led with the left leg. Crossed the distance between us with terrifying speed. I ducked his attack, wove behind him. His fist slashed out, I ducked, he flicked out a kick, I sidestepped away, he lunged and missed. Each attack came close, I felt the sweat fleck off him. His eyes narrowed with anger, and then he really threw himself at me. And again, I slipped right past him, this time landing a quick hit of my own, to the back of his knee. He grunted, and his leg buckled momentarily; he stumbled and righted himself.

            Now, the men surrounding us muttered. Their faces darkened. This was an embarrassment, and I suddenly realised that to win this fight—still not a sure thing—would almost certainly be to lose it. Dimitrios might yield—maybe I’d take out his knee, or land some crazy ninja kick to the temple—and these other bastards? They’d do whatever they fucking well liked, and I didn’t imagine it would involve politely escorting me through to Darius, not without their boss keeping them in line, holding them to the deal. They had a palpable respect for the guy, and they didn’t like watching some tiny twenty-year old bitch take him down.

            Well, shit.

            Dimitrios shook out his leg, took a moment to consider his next attack. The way his eyes flicked across the room, he was probably considering throwing big and heavy shit at me. Maybe coral me into a corner, up against a wall, or into his men.

            Time to take the initiative. When I saw he was about to move, I charged first. His eyes widened; he swept out an arm to catch me. I slipped beneath his grasp into a low crouch—he spun about—I pushed off—another near miss—glided behind him and hit the wall with bone-jarring impact but kicked off with a high-pitched cry—and then I was on his back, riding the massive bastard like some crazy carnival ride. He roared and twisted around, and my legs snapped tight around his torso and my arm found his neck in a tight hold.

            Dimitrius’s eyes bulged. He thrashed about. First, he scrabbled to grab me, and his fist slammed into my thigh. Then, he threw himself back first into the wall, and again. Each impact jarred through me, hurt like hell, tore a cry of pain—but did not dislodge me. He slowed, weakened, as I cut off the flow of blood to his brain. Nine seconds, on average. That’s all it takes to choke or strangle someone into submission. In a moment, his legs would sag, and he would fall.

            His whole body tensed for one last effort. I braced myself. Spit bubbled on his lips. He flung himself into the wall a final time. There was an explosion of pain—I held, only just—and hissed in his ear, ‘Grab my hair, you dumb fuck!’

            Dimitrius’ meaty fist closed tight around my long braid and yanked. I gasped at the pain, screamed. My grip loosened at his neck. With a grunt, he twisted and wrenched me free. Then, one arm still grabbing my hair, the other at my waist, he heaved me like a fucking sack of potatoes.

            I hit the wall, and then the ground, and saw stars. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt. He was slow to move, but I wasn’t exactly moving much, either. His paw closed around my neck. Face red, lips flecked with spit, he hauled me effortlessly into the air and slammed me up against the brick, feet dangling half a meter from the ground. “Yield?”

            I wheezed out a dry laugh. “Yeah.”

            The men cheered. A massive forty-year-old man beating up on what for all appearances was a teenage girl, and they cheered; and the ludicrousness of the situation seemed lost on them.

            Dimitrios released me. I dropped to the ground, fell to my knees and took deep, gasping breaths. The room titled dangerously as I shook my head. Then, he grabbed me by the wrist. He jerked me to my feet and dragged me into the changing room.