Page 79 of Shadow Of Sin

“Not you. Yours is usually buffering. Right now, it’s fully fucking loaded.” He tosses me a roll of tape. “Wrap up. I’ve been waiting to kick your ass for two weeks and you’re not ruining it with your creepy new glow.”

I tape between the knuckles, around the wrists, tight enough to hold, but not enough to restrict my movement. The routine settles my brain the way it always does. Step one, step two, step three. The same every time. It’s predictable and controlled.

Unlike everything else in my life right now.

We step onto one of the mats. Cillian circles left because he always circles left. He leads with his right because his left shoulder has been tight since he separated it two years ago and he compensates without realizing it. His footwork is good, but he drops his guard about half an inch when he throws the hook.

It’s the same way every time.

And I see all of this in the first ten seconds because that’s what my brain does. It reads systems. Doesn’t matter if the system is a network architecture or a person standing in front of me with their fists up. Patterns are patterns.

Cillian throws a jab. I slip around his fist. He follows with the hook, and then his guard drops, just like it always does. I step inside and slam him with a body shot that makes him grunt as he doubles over.

“Shit,” he says, resetting. “You’ve been practicing.”

“I’ve been hitting the bag. It’s not the same thing.”

“Clearly, it’s working.”

We go again. Cillian is stronger than me. Faster, too, in short bursts. But I’m more efficient. I don’t waste energy on movement that isn’t necessary. Every step has a purpose. Every punch is aimed at a gap I already identified before my fist leaves my side.

That’s how I fight. Not with power. With information.

Until Cillian catches me off guard with a cross that snaps my head sideways. I taste metal.

Fuck.

“There it is,” he says. “You dropped your shoulder.”

“I know.”

“You know because I just hit you in the face.”

“I know because I felt my shoulder drop before you threw. I just didn’t correct fast enough.”

“That’s a very Wolfe way to justify getting punched.”

We reset. Go again. Three rounds, three minutes each. He wins the first one easy because he landed more shots. I win the second round because my shots were cleaner than his sloppy ass ones. The third one is ugly and close. By the end we’re both sweating, panting hard, and grinning like idiots.

It feels good. The Molloy way of blowing off steam and channeling all our unresolved shit into our punches.

“Not bad,” he says, pulling off his gloves. “Not bad at all.”

The door bangs open. Gavin strolls in wearing basketball shorts, a tank top, and an expression that says he’s been awake for twenty minutes and is looking to fight someone.

“Who’s next?” he says, bouncing on his toes. “I’m feeling dangerous.”

“What, you didn’t find anyone’s ass to kick when you were out last night?” Cillian asks with a chuckle. He takes a long gulp of his water. “Still need to scratch the itch?”

“I always have energy for a good ass kicking.” He points at me. “Wolfe. Let’s go.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he says. “This is happening.”

Cillian and I exchange a look. He rolls his eyes. I just shrug and do a quick stretch. Cillian never wears me down too hard because he’s predictable. For the most part.

We step onto the mat. Gavin is loose, aggressive, and completely unpredictable, unlike Cillian. He throws combinations that don’t follow any pattern I can identify because there is no pattern. He just swings.