Ragor’s Revenge

Jasper's muscles burned, his breath coming in ragged pulls. Three bodies lay groaning at his feet, but the real threat had just stepped in.

Ragor.

Scarred, grinning, and holding a shiv.

"Pante was right," Ragor mused, flipping the blade in his hand. "You got fight in you. But you're still just a dead man walking."

Jasper's fingers curled into fists. No words. No fear. Just focus.

Ragor lunged.

Jasper dodged, barely. The shiv sliced through his jumpsuit, a whisper of cold steel against his ribs. Too damn close.

Ragor didn't stop. He came in again, faster, more precise—not a brawler like his goons. A killer.

Jasper had to move.

He grabbed the metal food tray from his bunk and swung—Ragor ducked. The shiv flashed up—Jasper jerked back, but pain bloomed in his shoulder. The blade barely nicked him, but blood seeped through the fabric.

Ragor grinned.

"You bleed just like the rest."

Jasper's mind raced. Think. Strength alone wouldn't win this. Mark's words echoed:

"Use everything. Fight dirty. No rules in survival."

Fine.

Ragor lunged again. This time, Jasper didn't dodge.

He stepped in.

Pain exploded as the blade sank into his side, but Jasper grabbed Ragor's wrist, trapping him. Before Ragor could pull back, Jasper slammed his forehead into Ragor's nose.

CRACK.

Ragor cursed, stumbling, his grip loosening—Jasper twisted the blade out of his own flesh and into Ragor's thigh.

Ragor screamed.

Jasper didn't stop. He tackled Ragor, slamming him onto the hard concrete. Fists rained down—one, two, three—until Ragor's grin was gone, replaced by a bloody, dazed expression.

The alarms blared.

Guards were coming.

Jasper staggered back, bleeding, panting, victorious. Razor lay crumpled on the floor, the knife still buried in his leg.

The moment the guards stormed in, batons raised, Jasper knew what was coming.

But as they dragged him away, one thought burned in his mind.

I survived.

And in Blackridge, that meant he was getting stronger.