My boot thundered against his kneecap.

This is for fucking throwing me away like I was nothing.

My uppercut sliced through his jaw, spurting red rain from his mouth.

Rubix reeled away, groaning. He hurtled himself forward, going for my stab wound. He punched me right in the gaping slice. Nausea raced through me.

He dodged my retaliation to wallop my kidneys from behind.

I cried out, gritting my teeth against the whitewash of unconsciousness. Blood ran over my brow; sweat drenched my hair.

Rubix might’ve been a better fighter when I was younger, but the past had changed me.

He’d taught me to funnel my anger. When I’d been imprisoned at Florida State, his lessons had been a saving grace. I’d been able to defend myself—make a name for the barely adult convict and prevent worse tragedies.

My skills had been noted. I’d been recruited for the prison boxing team. For years, I served as entertainment for inmates and guards alike—learning, evolving, honing my skills for this very moment.

He didn’t stand a fucking chance.

You see, Father. Payback is a bitch.

Pummel after pummel, we grunted and glared.

“Give it up, Arthur. You won’t win.”

I laughed because the words were false bravado from a dying man.

Accepting pain from his deadly aimed strikes only fueled me more.

I bared my teeth. “You’re losing ground, old man.”

I served an uppercut. Connecting with his chin, rattling his teeth like bones. He slammed to his knees, shaking his head. Before I could deliver another, he staggered to his feet, spitting blood in my direction.

My hands tightened. My heart lightened.

I’d made my father bow.

I’ll make him do it again.

Breathing hard, I served a heavy slug, snapping his head back. He crashed against the bed, whirling away from me.

I’d never felt such freedom. Every punishment was medicine to my heart. His every cry soothed me, knowing I destroyed the monster of my past.

He deserved this and so help me God, I would end this.

Rubix slumped to the floor, shaking his head from dizziness.

I advanced.

We both knew who’d won.

It was schematics now. Inevitable.

For a moment, I paused. I could drag this out. I could wait for him to climb to his feet and torment him again and again. Memories of the past—of a childhood where firing guns, smuggling drugs, and assassinating business rivals was more common than barbeques or homework—I struggled to let go. To stop my tangled history having any sway over me—to stop pining for Cleo’s teenaged ghost before she was scared and inked.

I hadn’t been strong enough or cold enough to do what was needed all those years ago. I wasn’t able to protect her.

But by fuck, I’d do it now. For as long as I lived, Cleo would always be safe, loved, and protected.

Rubix stood up. His nose was broken and his right elbow didn’t bend correctly. My heart thumped to think of the agony I’d caused the man who gave me life.

Then I remembered his threats toward Cleo. I recalled his every torture and trickery, and nothing could stop me from exterminating him.

I was doing the world a favor. I was doing the only thing I could to finally find happiness.

Spinning in place, I roundhoused him. My boot landed squarely on his chest. The crunch of ribs cracked in the stagnant room as he folded to the floor. His scream bounced off the walls, sounding sickly weak.

Standing over him, I said goodbye to every hatred I’d carried for so long. I let go of what’d driven me and embraced a fresh beginning.

“Goodbye, Rubix.”

He raised his hands. “You’ll fucking regret it, boy. You’re my son!”

I raised my boot. “Not anymore.”

I kicked him. He rolled to his side, bellowing in agony.

Then I did something I wasn’t proud of.

I stood over my father’s body and kicked him in the head.

One last severance to end it all.

My father twitched and fell broken.

It’s done.

The silence that followed didn’t make any sense.

I was eerily empty.

Strangely calm and not entirely satisfied.

After four million minutes—eight long years—I finally had cessation. However, there was a part of me that didn’t settle. It didn’t feel final.

He’s dead … isn’t he?

I bent to check his pulse.

There was a faint beat—his last attempt to cling to life.

Goddammit.

Why couldn’t anything relating to my father be easy?

The fact he wasn’t dead destroyed my inner calm. Even unconscious and barely alive, he still made me go into the pitch black to win.

Standing, I did the only thing I could. Grabbing the knife from the bed, I rolled Rubix onto his back and hovered over his unconscious body.

Hatred heated my blood, warming me despite the torrent soaking my T-shirt and jeans. Not only had I beaten him to a pulp, but I now had to murder in cold blood too. End an unconscious man—put him down like some sick dog.

Sucking in a breath, I wrangled my thoughts in order.

He’s a monster.

He has to die.

Almost ritually, I pierced the blade between his ribs and plunged the knife deep into his heart.

He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t flinch. There was no sign of him slipping from one world to the next. Only the barest stutter as his pulse ceased.

The room seemed to contract and exhale. Relief dripped down the walls and finally I felt a thawing inside me.