My fist catches him square on the jaw, snapping his head back. It's a clean hit, nothing fancy - just good form and better timing. For once, he didn't see it coming.

  Rush Order staggers back a step, touching his jaw with genuine surprise. For a split second, I think he might be angry. Then his face splits into a wild grin, blood-stained teeth gleaming under the streetlights.

  "Well, shit!" he laughs, cracking his neck. "The puppy's got bite!"

  The crowd erupts, voices melding into a wordless roar. Someone starts a chant - "Cape fight! Cape fight!" - that ripples through the spectators. The drones buzz lower, hunting for the perfect angle.

  Fuck. What am I doing? I should be tracking Elias, or helping with the Jump crisis, or at the very least getting home before my parents completely lose it. Not trading punches with some Rogue Wave jackass while the city burns.

  "Thought you were leaving," I say, resetting my stance, scanning for an exit route. This needs to end. Fast.

  "Changed my mind." He bounces on his toes again, but there's a different energy to it now. Less showmanship, more predatory focus. "Can't walk away when someone puts their hands on me. Bad for business."

  My phone vibrates in my pocket - probably my parents again. I don't dare check it. The crowd has boxed us in completely, a wall of bodies and phones recording every move. The only way out is through Rush Order.

  "Look, I don't have time for this," I say, keeping my guard up. "People are dying out there because of your 'scavenger hunt.'"

  "And they'll keep dying whether we fight or not." He shrugs, smile never wavering. "Might as well enjoy ourselves."

  There's something cold beneath the friendly veneer now, a sharpness in his eyes that wasn't there before. The playful demeanor is still there, but it's just packaging - gift wrapping on a box full of knives.

  He plants, heart rate spikes, and I'm already moving before his fist materializes where my head was a second ago. I duck under, driving an uppercut into his floating ribs. He grunts, more surprised than hurt, and tries to create distance.

  "Look at you, learning," he says, the friendly tone belied by the increasing speed of his movements. "Most people never adjust."

  "I'm not most people," I reply, circling toward what looks like a thinner section of the crowd. If I can break through there...

  "Clearly." He cuts off my angle, positioning himself between me and my potential escape route. It's not subtle - he knows exactly what I'm trying to do. "So what's your deal, anyway? Get attacked by a radioactive pitbull?"

  I throw a probing jab that he easily avoids. "Did you get attacked by a radioactive mailman?"

  "Hey, this is a classic look," he protests, adjusting said beret without taking his eyes off me. "Che Guevara meets Guy Ritchie."

  He's stalling, keeping me here, putting on a show while whatever Rogue Wave's real plan is unfolds elsewhere. This is good for business. It puts Rogue Wave on the map. The whole internet is gonna see this. Red and blue lights flash in the distance.

  "You're keeping me here on purpose," I point out. "This is a distraction."

  His smile widens but his tone of voice is all mock offense. "You think I'd do that? Little old me?"

  "Cut the shit," I snap, my patience evaporating. "What's your endgame?"

  He grins, then disappears in a blur of motion. I track his blood flow - behind me now - and spin just in time to block a kick aimed at my kidney. The impact jars my forearm, but I maintain my balance. When he resets his position, there's no lag time, no moment of vulnerability. He doesn't need time to cock his elbows in or to throw them out. He just accelerates instantly. He can attack, recover, and attack again faster than I can process.

  Sirens wail somewhere nearby. More emergency vehicles, responding to more casualties. How many people are dying while I'm trapped in this pointless exhibition match?

  "You're pretty good," he acknowledges after I slip another punch and counter effectively. "For a kid."

  "I don't have time for this," I snap, frustration boiling over. "People need help."

  "They always need help," he says, suddenly serious. "That's the point. The system's broken, and we're tearing it down. Tonight's just the beginning. Let's demonstrate it to the world, Bloodhound. You and me, together."

  His next attack comes from an impossible angle, almost like he's bending his arm in a way that human bodies aren't meant to bend - but it's more that he's just firing it, looping it in a way that it's not supposed to go. His fist catches me on the temple, sending me staggering back a step. I try to clench my jaw, but the nerves just... don't fire quite fast enough.

  "Not bad," Rush Order says, wiping sweat off of his forehead. "Most people stay down after that one."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "I'm not most people," I reply, spitting blood onto the pavement.

  He pauses, considering. "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

  I don't answer him. "What's your excuse?"

  He grins like a chimpanzee - all teeth, all gums, no happiness, no remorse. "Nothing makes people like us feel more alive than dancing on the edge, am I right?"

  My regeneration is working overtime, but it's designed for catastrophic injuries, not this constant battering. Fuck! I need to end this. Elias is getting further away with every second. The Jump crisis is spreading. My parents are probably calling the National Guard by now.

  "Let her out! Get out of the fucking street, guys!" someone shouts to the crowd, from the crowd. People start clearing open, peeling back onto the sidewalk, but Rush Order isn't going to let it get that easy.

  I pivot just as he materializes behind me, my elbow already coming up to meet his face - speed doesn't help if you're predictable. It connects with a satisfying thump, and he stumbles back, genuine surprise in his eyes.

  "How the hell--" he starts, but I don't let him finish.

  I press forward, throwing combinations I've drilled a thousand times with Multiplex. Jab, cross, hook. Rush Order blocks most of them, his speed giving him an inhuman reaction time, but I'm not trying to land knockout blows. My teeth are out of my knuckles now, and I'm gouging tiny little cuts from him, bit by bit. Scrapes. Slices. Gashes. When he blocks, I take my toll. No parrying allowed, bitch. Only dodging.

  He tries to create distance, but I stay on him, cutting off his angles, anticipating his movement patterns. Then, he adapts. He stops trying to box with me and simply... doesn't.

  A fist materializes in my peripheral vision, then another from below, then a kick from the side. I block one, slip another, but the third catches me solidly in the ribs with a crack that sends pain shooting through my entire torso. Before I can recover, he's behind me, then in front, then to the side, landing blows that I can barely track, let alone defend against. I manage to land one more solid counterpunch, catching him as he resets, but it's not enough to slow his assault, even as I rip a clean, even slice from jaw to chin. I clench my face in anticipation. Any second--

  A hook catches me on the jaw, sending a line of pain right through my mandible. I don't budge. I swing back, and rip open the front of his shirt, quickly staining it with his Fly-blood.

  Rush Order pauses, watching me with cold calculation. "You're still conscious. Impressive," he wheezes, giving me space to stand back up. Not out of mercy - he's prolonging the spectacle. My ribs are definitely broken, and I'm pretty sure I have a concussion. People have opened up back again, off the streets, back onto the sidewalks. Letting me out. Further down, drone operators, people directing cars away from the intersection. "You're good, Bloodhound. Raw, but good. With proper training, you might even be dangerous someday," he muses.

  "I'm dangerous now," I insist, raising my guard again.

  He laughs, genuine amusement in his eyes. "Look out, world! Cape of the year here, she's a big girl now," he roars, delighted by my conviction. "Then die standing like a superhero!"

  What follows is less a fight and more a demonstration of just how outmatched I truly am. One inch punches that rattle my entire body a dozen at a time. A roundhouse kick with a kung fu movie kiai that catches my floating ribs and leaves me wheezing, blood spraying against the open mouth of my helmet.

  Someone from the crowd yells; "Fuck him up, Bloodhound!"

  Someone else yells from the opposite side; "Hey, she's just a kid! Leave her alone!"

  My blood sense helps me track his general location, but it's not enough. By the time I register his presence on one side, he's already struck from another, reset, and is coming in for a third attack. It's like fighting a swarm of wasps with a baseball bat, sweat and blood both loose enough to flick onto me in a yellowish froth with each strike.

  I land the occasional counter, more by luck than skill, but for every hit I score, he lands five. He's getting sloppy, but he's overwhelming the slop with sheer volume. Doesn’t matter where he’s hitting if he’s hitting ten times at once.

  When he slips, his leg flips out from under him in a way I've never seen a human body do before, correcting his fall into more of a Michael Jackson lean.

  When he punches, there's no whoosh. No noise. Just impact, no matter how fast he's going.

  Is that his trick?

  Each time I try to disengage, to break through the crowd and escape this pointless battle, he cuts me off, herding me back to the center of the street like I'm a disobedient sheep and he's an enthusiastic border collie. I reach the street corner and I see someone reaching out to try and pull me into the crowd - savior, savior - and he's grabbed me by the synthetic mane of my helmet and tossed me back into the ring before I can clasp hands.

  The crowd has gone from gawkish enthusiasm to a distressed murmur. The silence is almost worse than the cheering from the beginning.

  "Had... enough... yet?" Rush Order seethes, sucking wind between his teeth after landing a particularly vicious combination that leaves me doubled over, gasping for breath, a rib definitely broken. Blood drips from the fifteen tiny cuts and three large ones I've put on his face, forming a grim, orange mask that leeches down into his clothes. He'll need stitches, and I'll need two days on the couch.

  I can't say I'm happy about that, but...

  "Fuck... you..." I manage between ragged breaths.

  "The crowd's... getting their money's worth," Rush Order observes between breaths, gesturing to the spectators, who are staring with this elaborate mixture of pity, disgust, and fear. Who wants to reach out to Bloodhound? Who wants to get their fingers broken by the fastest man they've ever seen? "How should we end it? Mild concussion? Coma? I have a gun if... if you want me to just kneecap you. I'd prefer... haah... not to kill you... unless you really... wanna make me do it. Teen suicide's... no joke! Ahaha--!"

  I stare at him, light-headed, my balance gone like someone pulled the floor out from under me. "Teen suicide’s... your idea of a punchline? I thought... you were a... revolutionary... not some edgy bully," I say, trying to remain upright, to spit some kind of quip back, but it's melting in my throat like an ice cube. "What... you peak in middle school?"

  "Get his ass, Bloodhound!" someone cheers, but it doesn't land. The crowd isn't here for cheering anymore. They're witnessing an execution while he cackles breathily at the banter.

  The gaps in the crowd have already begun to widen - guilt, fear, or just not wanting to be accessories. The headlights finish what conscience started, clearing out any stragglers in the road. A car peels in uncomfortably fast, brakes slamming, grinding to a halt a good 20 feet away. Its high beams illuminate the widening arena, casting long shadows across the pavement.

  Rush Order shields his eyes with one hand, squinting against the glare, panting. "Friend of yours?"

  I recognize the car with a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with my injuries. The silver-blue Honda CR-V. The small dent in the front bumper from where Dad backed into a pole last winter.

  "Ah, shit," I mutter, considering death with a great deal more optimism now.