Fair fights and Unholy alliances

The silence between them stretched, thick with the weight of unspoken rules.

Two men. Two killers.

One would walk away.

Logan smirked, lowering his gun, ejecting the magazine with a casual flick. The metal clattered onto the wooden floor.

Then, with practiced precision, he racked the slide back, ejecting the chambered round before tossing the gun aside.

"Let's make this fair."

Nash watched him, expression unreadable. Then he mirrored the motion—except he left one in the chamber.

Logan's eyes flicked to the gun, then back to Nash.

"Smart," he said, rolling his shoulders, his smirk never fading. "Won't matter."

Then he stepped forward.

Nash braced himself.

---

Logan moved first—a blindingly fast jab.

Nash barely dodged, feeling the wind of the punch as it cut past his face.

Shit.

Before he could react, Logan followed up with a brutal right cross, then a devastating left hook.

Nash ducked, pivoted—but Logan wasn't just throwing wild punches.

He was calculated. Precise.

Nash struck out, using his speed—a tiger claw strike aimed for Logan's throat.

Logan blocked it with his forearm, absorbing the blow like it was nothing.

"That all you got?" Logan scoffed, tilting his head. "I've fought your type before—quick, disciplined, efficient. But you know the problem with guys like you?"

Before Nash could react, a brutal hook to the ribs.

Pain erupted through his side.

His breath caught. His vision flickered.

Fuck.

Logan grinned, stepping back slightly. "You fight for control. I fight for destruction. And when a guy like me fights a guy like you…"

He cracked his knuckles. "Only one of us walks away intact."

---

Nash adjusted his stance, moving in lighter, faster—bouncing on his feet.

Logan recognized it instantly.

Nash lashed out—a feint to the right, then a lightning-fast kick to Logan's ribs.

It connected.

Clean. Hard.

Logan grunted, but his footing barely shifted.

Nash pressed—two quick jabs, a pivot, a low strike to Logan's knee.

Fast. Sharp. Tactical.

Logan took it. Absorbed it.

Then he retaliated.

A hammering right hook to Nash's ribs.

The same ribs. The wounded ones.

A strangled noise left Nash's throat—not quite a gasp, not quite a grunt.

Logan smirked. "Yeah. That hurt, didn't it?"

Nash stepped back, trying to breathe through the blinding pain.

He couldn't afford to slow down.

Logan knew it.

Another body shot.

Then a brutal left hook to Nash's jaw.

Nash's head snapped to the side. Blood filled his mouth.

Logan wasn't fighting him.

He was breaking him down, piece by piece.

"Breathe, Mercer," Logan said, circling. "How's that wound feel? Every breath like knives in your side?"

Nash spat blood onto the floor.

"You talk too much."

Logan laughed.

"Then shut me up. Like you did your old mentor."

---

Nash lunged—a desperate, sharp feint, stepping inside Logan's guard.

Logan let him.

Then, in a single seamless movement, Logan dropped his weight, shifted his stance—

And drove his fist into Nash's liver.

A perfect liver shot.

Nash's knees buckled instantly.

The world tilted.

His body refused to listen.

He couldn't move.

Logan didn't stop.

A sharp knee to the gut sent Nash crashing onto his back.

Vision blurred. Breath shallow.

Nash tried to push himself up.

Logan stepped on his wrist.

Not enough pressure to break—just enough to keep him pinned.

Logan sighed. "You had potential."

Nash could barely hear him through the ringing in his ears.

Logan's boot lifted.

"Guess I'll just—"

---

BANG.

Logan jerked violently, his body seizing.

For a moment, he didn't fall.

Then, he dropped to one knee.

Nash blinked through the haze.

Saline stood in the back, holding her side, her gun raised, barrel still smoking.

A perfect shot—Logan's upper spine. A nerve disruptor.

Logan gasped, struggling to move his arms. His body wasn't responding properly.

Saline stepped forward, calm, cold, precise.

"You should've killed me," she told Logan. "Now you'll regret it."

Nash spat blood onto the floor.

"I didn't need help."

Saline shrugged. "He was going to kill you, and I need you."

Nash dragged himself up, pain burning through his body.

Logan was still breathing. Still awake.

Saline glanced at Nash. "Want me to finish him?"

Nash was silent.

Then—he grabbed his gun, aimed it at Logan's leg—

And pulled the trigger.

BANG.

Logan let out a guttural scream.

Nash crouched before him, eyes cold.

"Where is Celeste?"

---

Hours later, Jack stepped through the glass doors of The Sentinel, still feeling the weight of what had happened with Nash.

He needed answers.

The newsroom was a maelstrom of motion and noise. Phones rang, printers hummed, and a constant undercurrent of voices layered the air like static. The scent of burnt coffee, ink, and sweat clung to the place—an office where people lived and breathed the pursuit of truth.

Reporters weaved between desks, balancing cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches, all too absorbed in their stories to notice a homicide detective walking through their domain.

Jack spotted Evelyn Monroe almost immediately.

She was perched at the far end, near a window, where the dim afternoon light cast across her cluttered desk.

Her dark hair was haphazardly tied up, a few loose strands framing her face as she typed. Her desk was a disaster—papers, folders, coffee-stained notebooks, a police scanner buzzing faintly beside her monitor.

She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice him until his shadow stretched across her desk.

She didn't look up.

"If you're here for a quote, get in line," she muttered, still typing. "I don't do puff pieces."

Jack smirked. "Not here for a quote."

That made her pause.

She finally pushed her glasses up, her sharp green eyes flicking over him—assessing, cataloging, filing him away.

Then, she gave him a slow, amused smile.

"And you are?"

Jack pulled out the chair across from her desk and sat down, uninvited.

"Jack Reynolds."

Monroe raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Never heard of you."

Jack smirked. "Good. That means I'm doing my job right."

Monroe let out a low, amused hum, finally leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest.

"Alright, Detective Reynolds. You walked into my den, so tell me—what can The Sentinel's most charming investigative journalist do for New York's least interesting cop?"

Jack exhaled slowly, pulling a manila folder from inside his jacket and sliding it across the mess of her desk.

"Greg Walters."

Monroe glanced at the folder but didn't touch it. Instead, she looked back at him, curiosity flickering in her gaze.

"Oh. This just got interesting."

Jack leaned forward. "Then let's start talking."