The drive to The Crooked Warden saw Wynn taking extra care with every turn and stop while tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. In his head, a single thought repeated over and over and over: Control starts with oneself.

 

If he was going to come out on top, he couldn’t lose his head. He did his best work when he wasn’t ruffled. Plus, he didn’t know much about Crow’s tactics, only that he was military-trained, so he couldn’t rush anything. A blink was all it took to land a blow or end up tasting the floor.

 

When Wynn arrived at The Crooked Warden, he found Rebecca outside the door, her blonde braid draped over her shoulder. She dressed in her black blazer, curve-hugging white top, short black skirt, and heels. She held a plastic bag filled with cloth.

 

His gut seized up. Having eyes on the ground was a no-brainer – they needed someone to confirm the results – but there had to be a safer way than giving Rebecca a front-row seat.

 

There are no safe bets here, his logical side noted. Outsiders were off the table and Cassidy’s hands were tied up with training. So, Rebecca was the go-to.

 

Regrettably.

 

The sun was high and fierce as Wynn exited the car, its rays casting sharp shadows on the ground. Rebecca flashed a quick smile that mirrored the day's cheer and greeted him. He returned the gesture with a nod then unlocked the door. Together, they stepped inside, leaving the relentless sunlight for the welcoming coolness of the bar.

 

The bar lay in quiet anticipation, untouched and unlit. The two trekked through the downstairs bar, where the stools were upturned on the counter, and climbed the stairs to the VIP rooms above.

 

Light seeped from the gap under the door at the end of the hall, spilling onto the dim hallway floor like a secret too bright to contain.

 

Wynn narrowed his eyes, instructed Rebecca to get behind him, and led the way in.

 

“Nice of you to finally show,” Alban said as they entered the VIP room.

 

Alban's fists cut through the air as he shadowboxed, his body weaving rhythmically with each punch. Topped with his signature faux mohawk, his appearance was as aggressive as his movements.

 

The white tank top he wore was almost a second skin, showcasing the impressive musculature of his arms and torso. His attire was completed with a pair of rugged jean shorts and worn sneakers, perfect for swift, agile movements.

 

“I was starting to think you didn’t care about cracking into this goldmine.” Crow tapped his head before glancing towards the entrance. “Cassidy’s not around?”

 

“Cassidy’s already outclassed you once!” Rebecca asserted. “Earn your way back if you want to challenge her again.”

 

Wynn twisted his gaze towards Rebecca and squinted. What was she up to?

 

Crow chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re obviously in the dark about scrapping. She blindsided me, and I wasn’t looking for a brawl. In a real fight, I’d win, no contest.”

 

“Excuses won’t change the scoreboard,” Rebecca said, arms folded.

 

“True enough. In our game, the reasons are just noise. Win or lose – that’s all there is to it! Right, Auggie?”

 

Wynn studied Rebecca while removing his suit jacket. Was she trying to rile him up or something before the fight? If that was what she was doing, it wasn’t the worst. It was very much a Cassidy kind of move.

 

He, meanwhile, wouldn’t waste words on Crow. He needed to get ready for what was next.

 

Wynn popped the buttons on his sleeves and rolled the cotton smoothly up his arms. Then, with a steady inhale, he bent his arms behind his head, pressing one elbow with the other hand.

 

“Gotta say,” Crow continued, “I pity you, Auggie. Here you are, hustling so hard for Cassidy’s approval.”

 

Wynn twisted his upper body. His vertebra popped and crackled like dry twigs underfoot.

 

“Shame you’re about to fetch a big, fat nothing.”

 

With careful, measured breaths, Wynn touched his toes, bending at the waist.

 

“Let’s pour out one for your dignity after this is over.”

 

“Sorry,” Wynn said as he rose, “but chatting with you is not on my to-do list. Rebecca, the belts.”

 

The elegant lounge was quiet except for Rebecca’s footsteps as she walked over to Wynn with his belt. She handed him the sash, and he tied it around his waist, his movements smooth and confident.

 

Not wanting to get too close to Crow, Rebecca tossed his belt across to him, her throw accurate and firm. Alban caught it with a deft movement, his expression unreadable, then wrapped it around his waist while walking to the near-empty counter, save for a bottle of alcohol and wine glass.

 

Wynn stepped into the center of the room, where the lounge chairs would’ve been positioned if not already moved. Then he spread his legs, raised his arms, and balled his hands into fists. “Show me what you’ve got.”

 

“Heh.” Crow lifted a bottle on the counter, angling it so a stream of ruby liquid flowed into a shot glass. “Let’s do this.”

 

He clutched the shot glass and gulped down the shot in one smooth motion. His throat visibly worked to swallow the liquid.

 

With that, his gaze hardened. His shoulders squared. Dropping into a fighter’s crouch, he edged forward into the cleared space.

 

Crow will get an early boost, Wynn calculated. He was going to feel like he could take on the world for a few minutes. He wouldn’t feel much pain, either.

 

However, that kind of power came at a cost.

 

Alcohol was a depressant, not a booster. It was going to sap his speed, dull his movements. And the more he downed, the less he’d stand.

 

Wynn just had to outlast him – which was the plan to begin with. After all, Crow had smoke in his lungs on top of the booze in his veins. Stamina was not going to be his friend.

 

The world simplified as it narrowed to what little space remained. Wynn stood rooted, yet not immobile. Inside, a storm brewed – adrenaline sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge.

 

Crow halted just beyond reach, and an electric current of tension buzzed through the air.

 

Then, as if triggered by an unseen signal, he exhaled a mist.

 

What the— Wynn began to think as he dodged back, but then Crow darted through the dissipating cloud and launched a jab at his face. Instinctively, he raised his forearm, deflecting the blow aside.

 

Without a breath's pause, Crow dipped and shot a side punch at Wynn’s ribs. Wynn tightened and shielded himself with his elbow. The impact jolted through him, more annoyance than pain.

 

Crow, relentless, pivoted on his heel, launching a hook towards Wynn's temple. Wynn ducked, slipping under the sweeping blow, and narrowed his eyes.

 

Here was his opening.

 

Wynn thrust his hand forward – not for a punch, but for the sash. His fingers seized the rough fabric, but as he clutched victory, Crow’s momentum turned into a whirlwind. Pulled by Crow transforming his missed hook into a spin, Wynn stumbled forward as the belt ripped from his grasp.

 

Damn it all! Wynn cursed as his hand hit the floor, steadying himself just in time.

 

As he pushed up, Crow – now fully turned – snapped a sharp, straight kick.

 

Wynn flung himself to the side, avoiding the blow, and his back briefly met the ground. Then, with a swift thrust of his hands and legs, he sprang to his feet and raised his guard.

 

Crow rotated to face Wynn with steady, raised arms. “I’m mildly im—”

 

Wynn fired his straight kick, but Crow swiftly stepped back, and the kick whistled past his abdomen.

 

Can’t stop now, Wynn thought as he went for another straight kick, only for Alban to retreat again.

 

Undeterred, Wynn persisted, executing another straight kick, which Crow dodged.

 

“Seriously?” Alban said. “Same—”

 

Wynn fired a fourth straight kick, and Crow withdrew further, closer to the wall.

 

“Try that one more time,” Crow gritted, “see what happens!”

 

As Wynn’s leg lifted for yet another kick, Crow blitzed in.

 

Think again! Wynn gloated as he aborted the kick and unleashed an open-palm strike. His strike cracked against Crow’s jaw with the precision of a master sculptor chiseling his final touch.

 

Crow’s head whipped back as he fought to keep balance, his backward stumbling a desperate scramble for stability.

 

Wynn fired his fifth straight kick, but this time, his attack found its mark. His foot slammed into Crow’s abdomen and wrenched a sharp cry out of his mouth.

 

As Crow folded forward from the impact, Wynn snaked his arm around Alban’s neck and cinched in a chokehold.

 

“I expect that promise to be kept,” Wynn said as he tightened his grip, “no matter how long your nap is.”

 

Crow’s arms clasped around Wynn’s waist.

 

No way! Wynn thought as Crow’s grip tightened.

 

Before Wynn could adjust his hold, Alban anchored his feet and surged upward. Balance abandoned Wynn as he was hoisted, his feet overhead as he was flung back. Then his back slammed into the floor with a thud, shattering his chokehold and knocking a grunt from his mouth.

 

“You’re holding up better than I thought,” Crow said, his voice strained. “Still gonna fold, though. Still ain’t enough.”

 

This is a marathon, not a sprint, Wynn thought as he drew in a deep, steadying breath. Things were far from over. He just had to keep it together.

 

Feeling the solid ground beneath his palm, Wynn propelled himself up with guarded finesse and found Crow on his feet, strolling to the bar counter.

 

“Give me a sec.” Crow curled his fingers around the wine bottle’s neck. “I’m working up a thirst here.”

 

He raised the bottle and let the liquid flow freely into his mouth, not stopping until it was empty. Upon finishing, he gave a pleased “Ahh!” and wiped his mouth. “Ready and recharged! Now, where were we?”

 

With a crook of his finger, Wynn beckoned Alban, his stance unwavering.

 

A smug smirk spawned on Crow’s lip. “Better start untying that sash. Cause if it doesn’t hit the floor in ten seconds, Blondie’s getting a bottle makeover.”

 

“What?!” Rebecca cried out while Wynn’s eyes sharpened, and a tremor ran through his body.

 

“Eight and counting,” Crow said.

 

Like a bullet from a gun, Wynn exploded towards Crow. “Rebecca, run!”

 

Wynn closed the distance in the blink of an eye, as if he had teleported, but Crow vaulted skyward – his body sideways, his leg extended – and struck Wynn squarely in the chest. The kick connected with a thud and blasted Wynn backward.

 

Instinctively, Wynn tucked his legs as he fell, using the strike’s momentum to roll through into a crouched, kneeling position, his guard up.

 

Crow charged, arm outstretched, and muscle crashed against Wynn’s guard like an oncoming train, propelling him onto his back.

 

Damn it! Wynn cursed as he slammed back against the ground, eyes squeezed shut. He swiftly opened them to Crow looming above him – foot cocked for a stomp. His heart skipped a beat, and then he rolled inward, like a log, and slammed against Crow’s rooted leg.

 

Crow plummeted and hit the ground with a solid thump.

 

Don’t let him hurt Rebecca! Wynn commanded himself as he pushed to his feet.

 

Crow, meanwhile, rose with difficulty, his body betraying a lack of coordination. His breaths heaved as if each one was a battle of its own.

 

With the ferocity of a tiger pouncing on its quarry, Wynn lunged at Crow’s legs. His tackle, seamless and strong, swept Crow off his feet and to the ground in one fluid motion. He concluded by clamping his forearms down on Crow’s biceps, pinning him to the floor beneath him.

 

Crow thrashed, but the ground remained his prison as Wynn’s pressure on his biceps tightened.

 

“Stay down, Crow,” Wynn said, his voice steady. “It’s the safest place for you right now.”

 

Despite being pinned, Crow kept fighting, hooking his legs around Wynn’s waist. The vice-like squeeze sent a ripple of tension through Wynn's body and forced a grimace.

 

Nevertheless, he maintained his grasp.

 

No grand moves were needed; time was chipping away Crow’s strength.

 

Minutes stretched into an eternity on the floor. Wynn maintained his position atop Crow, the weight of duty his rock, while Crow’s legs remained wrapped tightly around his waist, a vice of desperation. Yet, as the moments ticked by, that desperation began to wane, the squeeze lessening with each labored breath.

 

Wynn kept his jaw tucked in, mindful that all sorts of tricks – even spit – could still be in Crow’s toolset. But none came. Instead, his struggle gradually became a mere shadow of its initial strength before dwindling to nothing.

 

With a voice as soft as a whisper, Rebecca asked, “Has he…stopped fighting?”

 

Why the hell are you still here? Wynn wondered before deciding that he’d figure that out later. Then he lifted his head and studied Crow.

 

Crow lay motionless, eyes closed, face calm, as if the battle and alcohol had drained him into a deep rest.

 

Guess the booze was the final straw on top of all that fatigue, Wynn concluded. “Yeah, he’s tapped out.”

 

Wynn let go, his sights on the sash, the last step to victory.

 

Like a trap springing, Crow’s fist rocketed up.

 

“Dream on!” Wynn spat as he snapped into a counter, parrying the wild swing, and then, with the same arm, hammered a hook punch into Crow's jaw with all the force of a wrecking ball in full swing.

 

Crow’s head jolted to one side, and his body went limp.

 

With a cautious hand, Wynn pressed two fingers against Crow’s neck. His carotid artery pulsed with life.

 

A sigh, rich with relief, spilled from Wynn’s lips. “Correction: now he’s tapped out.”