The quiet hadn’t settled.

  It lingered.

  Rell sat crouched on the porch, staring into the trees like they owed him something. His arms hung over his knees. Not pacing. Not twitching. Still — in that way people only got when they were holding something inside they couldn’t shake loose.

  Grinish came out, cracking his neck as he leaned on the rail beside him.

  “You always been this quiet?” he asked. “Cuz back in the prison, I coulda sworn you were all swing and spit.”

  Rell didn’t answer.

  Didn’t even look at him.

  “…No. Talk. About. It,” he muttered, voice like gravel.

  Grinish raised his hands. “Aight, aight. We can punch the silence instead. Let’s spar.”

  Rell turned slowly.

  Grinish grinned. “C’mon. Just like old times. First one who hits clean buys drinks.”

  “Mm.”

  Rell stood.

  ---

  The backyard was nothing special — flat dirt, a few logs, open space under a cracked moon.

  Grinish took his stance: old prison brawler style. Elbows tight. Chin tucked. Wide base. He was strong, no doubt.

  Rell didn’t raise his guard. Just… shifted.

  Light feet. One hand low. One near his chin. Shoulders loose.

  Grinish chuckled. “That jungle style?”

  “…Rell style.”

  They moved.

  Grinish came first — a jab-cross combo meant to test. Rell leaned sideways, caught the wrist, twisted with Wing Chun flow and cracked an elbow toward the ribs.

  Grinish rolled off it, aiming a sweep — but Rell caught the leg mid-turn and redirected him with a Krav pivot. The moment Grinish landed, Rell struck — a Muay Thai knee followed by a low Kyokushin stomp.

  He stopped an inch from Grinish’s throat.

  “Damn,” Grinish panted, still on the ground. “You’re a whole storm now.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Rell didn’t blink.

  “…Train. Fight. Survive,” he muttered. “No style. Just… life.”

  Grinish groaned and sat up. “Still can’t beat you.”

  Rell turned away. “Not ‘bout beatin’.”

  ---

  Myla leaned out the door. “You two break anything?”

  Grinish wiped his brow. “Just pride.”

  She rolled her eyes and stepped back inside. The baby let out a soft cry. Familiar, rhythmic.

  Then it cut off.

  Quick. Too quick.

  Myla’s eyes widened. She ran into the house — fast.

  Rell’s gut twisted.

  He followed.

  ---

  The crib was empty.

  No sound.

  No blankets moved.

  Just a small scrap of parchment, fluttering slightly in the open window’s breeze. Grinish stepped forward and picked it up, his hands already shaking.

  His lips moved as he read aloud:

  “We know who you are.

  Grinish comes alone — or the baby dies.”

  The paper slipped from his hand.

  Myla let out a choked sob.

  Her legs buckled. She fell to her knees beside the empty crib, reaching out as if the baby would just… appear.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—”

  Rell’s jaw locked. Hands curling into fists so tight his knuckles cracked.

  “Who,” he breathed. “Who… take baby?”

  Grinish’s face was pale.

  “…The guild.”

  Myla’s voice came sharp through her tears. “What?!”

  “They helped us vanish,” he muttered. “New names. New lives. But they— sometimes they come back. Wanted more money. I told them to back off—”

  “You told them what?” Myla screamed.

  Grinish took a step back, guilt ripping through his chest.

  Rell didn’t speak. He turned, quietly.

  Myla gripped his sleeve.

  “Rell… please… bring her back.”

  He looked at her — that broken, panicked look.

  He nodded once.

  “…Bring. Her. Home.”