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The Trainer
Author: Lady Chids
last update2026-06-14 03:58:34

Cruz lived across town in a neighborhood that used to be nice.

Now the houses were run-down. Yards overgrown. Cars on blocks. The American dream had died here years ago, and no one had bothered to bury it.

Damon found the address Frank had given him. A small house at the end of a dead-end street. Blue paint peeling. A chain-link fence with a gate that hung crooked. In the backyard, visible through the fence, was a boxing ring. Old. Rusted. But still standing.

He knocked on the front door. No an
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  • The Evidence

    Damon woke to the sound of his phone buzzing. The sun wasn't up yet. The sky was still dark, the stars just beginning to fade. The canvas was cold against his back. His body was stiff. His ribs ached. His knuckles had swollen overnight, the tape Cruz had wrapped around them now tight and uncomfortable. He grabbed his phone. Leo. "Corso. Get to Helen's. Now." Damon sat up. His spine cracked. "What's going on?" "Mendez found something. Something big. I'm not saying it over the phone." The line went dead. Damon stood up. His legs shook. His ribs screamed. He ignored them. He walked to the gate. Cruz was already in the backyard. Shadowboxing in the dim light. "You're leaving," Cruz said. Not a question. "Mendez found something. Leo wants me at Helen's." Cruz stopped. Turned. His b

  • Safe house

    Leo's safe house was a basement apartment on the north side of the city. The building was old. Red brick. Chipped paint. A laundry mat on the first floor. Apartments above. The basement had its own entrance, hidden behind a dumpster, down a flight of concrete stairs. Damon helped Ortega down the stairs. The man could barely walk. His face was swollen. His ribs were bruised. Every step was a battle. "Almost there," Damon said. Ortega didn't answer. He just kept moving. The door at the bottom of the stairs was steel. Reinforced. A keypad on the wall. Damon punched in the code Leo had given him. The lock clicked open. Inside was small. A bed. A bathroom. A table with two chairs. A refrigerator humming in the corner. No windows. No phone. No way in or out except the steel door. Ortega collapsed on the bed. Closed his eyes. His chest rose and

  • My father will destroy you

    The warehouse smelled like blood. Damon stood ten feet from Cassian Draven. The man's suit was immaculate. His hair was perfect. His smile was thin and cruel. The gun in his hand gleamed under the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Behind Cassian, tied to a wooden chair, was Ortega. His face was swollen. His lip was split. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. He was conscious. Barely. His eyes, what little could be seen through the swelling, were wide with fear. "You came," Cassian said. "I didn't think you would." "You said to come alone." "And you did. Impressive. Or stupid. I haven't decided which." Damon's eyes moved around the room. Shadows. Corners. Possible exits. Possible threats. "Where are your men?" Damon asked. "Nearby. Watching. If you try anything stupid, they'll come out." Cassian tilted his head. "Not that you could do anything. You're broken. Bruis

  • The Witness

    Damon didn't sleep that night. He sat on the canvas, staring at the stars, replaying the conversation with Ortega. The fear in the man's eyes. The way his voice cracked when he said "they'll kill me." Ortega wasn't a criminal mastermind. He was a middleman. A messenger. A man caught between powerful forces, trying to survive. Damon understood that. He understood fear. He understood doing things he wasn't proud of to stay alive. But Ortega had helped the Dravens. Had moved their money. Had made their crimes possible. And now he was going to help bring them down. Dawn came slow and gray. Cruz was already in the backyard. Shadowboxing. His fists cut through the morning mist. "You look like hell," Cruz said. "Didn't sleep." "Ortega?" Damon nodded. "He agreed to talk. To meet my lawyer." Cruz stopped. Turned to face him. "You

  • A trap

    Damon arrived at the Southside Motel at 8am. The parking lot was empty. The morning sun was low, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. A few birds picked at garbage near the dumpster. The air smelled like stale cigarettes and something rotting. Room 17 looked the same as last night. Curtains drawn. Door closed. Light off. Damon knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Harder. "Ortega. It's Corso. Open the door." Nothing. Damon's heart rate ticked up. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. He pushed the door open. The room was empty. The bed was unmade. A suitcase sat open on the floor, half-packed. Clothes spilled out. A toothbrush lay on the bathroom sink. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the nightstand. But Ortega was gone. Damon pulled out his phone. Called Leo. Leo answered on the second ring. "Corso. It's early."

  • Hunting

    Damon woke before dawn. The canvas was cold against his back. The sky was still dark, the stars just beginning to fade. His body ached in places he didn't know existed. His ribs clicked when he breathed. His knuckles were swollen. But he was alive. And that was enough. Cruz was already in the backyard. Shadowboxing in the dim light. His fists cut through the air like knives. His feet moved across the grass like he was dancing. "You're up early," Cruz said without turning around. "Couldn't sleep." "Thinking about the Dravens?" "Thinking about a man named Javier Ortega." Cruz stopped. Turned. His brown eyes were sharp in the fading darkness. "Who's that?" "The middleman between the Dravens and a Mexican cartel. If I can find him, I can flip him. Get him to testify against Alistair." Cruz was quiet for a moment. Then he walked to the ring. Held the ropes open. "Get in. We train first. Then you hunt." They trained for four hours. Cruz pushed him harder than before. Faster co

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