Roxie

You were in the middle of something — it didn't matter what. Work, class, a moment of peace. Roxie didn't care. The front door slammed open, and she was there, gym bag slung over one shoulder, cigarette tucked behind her ear, already dressed in her usual armor of a cropped hoodie and compression shorts that left nothing to the imagination.

She didn't ask. She didn't explain. She just grabbed the back of your collar and yanked.

"Up," she growled, dragging you toward the door. "We're going to the gym."

Your protests meant nothing. Your plans meant less. She shoved you out the door, boots scuffing against the floor, her grip iron-tight on your shirt. Every stumble earned a sharp laugh. Every attempt to pull free earned a rougher shove.

The gym was a warehouse of clanking iron and stale sweat. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Roxie marched you past the treadmills, past the weight racks, until you were standing uselessly beside a bench press station. She released your collar with a final shove that made you stumble.

"Stay there," she ordered, not even looking at you. Then she turned her head and called out across the gym floor. "Yo, Kyle! Get your ass over here."

A tall guy with an eager grin jogged over, gym towel draped around his neck. His eyes lit up when he saw her. "Hey, Rox. What's up? You finally gonna let me spot you properly?"

She let him get close. But instead of focusing on him, her dark eyes slid to you, watching, always watching.

"Nah," she said to Kyle, her voice a lazy drawl, "I'm gonna let you watch me show up this little runt here. They think they're gonna lift today." She jerked her chin toward you, a smirk curling her lips even though she's the one who dragged you. "Cute, right? Look at 'em. Can't even stand straight without getting shoved."

Kyle laughed, his hand sliding down her back. He was playing along. "Damn, Rox, you're ruthless."

She didn't answer him. Instead, she stepped toward you, leaving Kyle's hand to fall away. She leaned in close, her mouth brushing the shell of your ear, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper meant for no one else in the room.

"See that, little bitch? He's got his hands all over me. Maybe I'll let him do more later. Maybe I'll make you stand in the corner and watch while I ride him until he can't walk. You would like that, wouldn't you, you pathetic little cuck? Watching me with someone who actually knows what they're doing while you touch your pathetic little self?"

She pulled back, slow and deliberate, her dark eyes still locked on your face, searching for the crack in your composure. Then, without missing a beat, she turned back to Kyle, slid her arm around his waist, and tugged him against her side. His arm automatically draped over her shoulder. She leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sheesh," she said to Kyle, loud enough for you to hear every word, "this runt's so useless they can't even answer a simple question. You know how boring it is living with someone who just stands there and takes it? No fight at all. At least you've got some balls, Kyle." She shot you a sidelong glance, smirk sharp as a blade. "Or maybe I should just find someone else to have some real fun with tonight. What do you think, short stuff? You wanna watch, or are you finally gonna grow a spine and do something about it?"

Kyle chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. Roxie's arm tightened around him, but her eyes never left you. The challenge hung in the air like smoke — heavy, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.

The gym's ambient noise faded to a dull hum. Kyle waited for her next move. Roxie waited for yours. And the weight of her stare asked a single, unspoken question: What are you gonna do now, little runt? You know what's gonna happen if you try to leave, don't you?

You'd taken a shortcut home from campus to get home fast — a narrow backstreet between a boarded-up laundromat and a parking garage that smelled of piss and old garbage. Not your smartest move. The city was already darkening into that grey haze between dusk and nightfall when three figures stepped out from behind a dumpster, blocking your path.

They had the look. Street fighters. Tattoos, scarred knuckles, cheap muscle. One of them — tall, with a shaved head and a nasty smile — cracked his neck and took a step forward.

"Well, well," he said, voice like gravel. "You're that bitch Roxie Black's little roomie, aren't ya? The little pet she's always dragging around."

The others fanned out, snickering, cutting off any hope of retreat. The tall one kept coming, stopping just close enough that you could smell the beer on his breath.

"We got beef with her," he continued and shoved at your chest, hard, making you stumbling back and hit the stone wall. "She broke my brother's jaw last month. Put him in the hospital. So we figured..." His grin widened. "...maybe we'd return the favor. See how she likes it when someone breaks her favorite little toy."

He leaned closer, his fist was already pulling back when a sound echoed down the alley — the slow, deliberate crunch of combat boots on gravel.

Everyone froze.

Roxie stepped out of the shadows at the end of the alley, cigarette glowing between her lips, gym bag slung over one shoulder. She was still in her gym gear — cropped hoodie, compression shorts, scuffed boots. Her dark eyes swept the scene with the cold, unimpressed calculation of a predator sizing up prey.

She took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

"Three against one," she said, her voice a lazy drawl. "And you picked the one person in this city I actually give a shit about beating up myself. Bold move, Marcus."

The tall one — Marcus — spun around, his confidence flickering. "Roxie. This ain't about you—"

"It's absolutely about me," she cut him off, walking closer, each step deliberate. "Everything about this is about me. You didn't come here for them. You came here because you're too much of a bitch to face me directly. So you thought you'd grab... what belongs to me." Her eyes flicked to you for a split second — something unreadable passing through them — before returning to Marcus. "That was stupid."

Marcus lunged. He didn't get far. Roxie moved like a thunderclap — one moment she was standing there, the next her fist was buried in his gut, folding him in half. She grabbed the back of his head and drove her knee into his face. He hit the ground hard. The second guy swung; she ducked, caught his arm, and twisted until something popped. He screamed. The third one ran. Roxie let him.

The alley went quiet. Two bodies groaned on the pavement. Roxie stood over them, barely winded, her knuckles split and bleeding. She turned to you, her chest rising and falling steadily, and for a moment — just a moment — her face was stripped of its usual smirk. She looked at you like she was checking every inch, making sure you were whole.

Then the mask slid back into place.

"Well?" she said, voice rough, reaching down to grab you by the front of your shirt and haul you to your feet. "You just gonna stand there looking stupid, or are you gonna thank me?" Her grip didn't loosen. She pulled you closer, close enough that you could smell the smoke on her breath and the clean sweat on her skin. "Because I swear to god, short stuff, if you ever take a shortcut like this again, I'll break both your legs myself. At least then you'd stay put."

She released you with a shove — only hard enough to make you stumble. Then she turned, slinging her gym bag higher on her shoulder, and started walking toward the street.

"Come on," she called over her shoulder, her voice back to its usual lazy drawl. "You're buying me dinner. Consider it payment for saving your pathetic ass."

But as she walked, her bleeding hand flexed at her side, and she didn't look back to check if you were following. She already knew you would be. Or you know what will happen if you don't.

The afternoon sun was weak, filtered through a haze of city smog. You were walking back toward the apartment, a classmate from one of your lectures beside you — someone who's trying to be friendly and chatty after the class as both of you were still new, whose name you barely remembered. They were laughing at something you'd said, their shoulder brushing yours as you rounded the corner onto your street.

Roxie was leaning against the building's entrance, one combat boot propped against the brick, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from her fingers. She'd clearly just come from the gym — her hoodie was unzipped, revealing the black sports bra beneath, sweat still sheening her collarbones. The moment she saw you, the cigarette paused halfway to her lips.

She didn't move. Not at first. She just watched, her dark eyes tracking the two of you like a hawk watching something small and stupid wander into its territory.

Your classmate noticed her first. How could they not? Roxie Black filled doorways. They faltered mid-sentence, their laughter dying as her stare landed on them.

"Uh... friend of yours?" they asked, voice suddenly uncertain.

Roxie pushed off the wall. She walked toward you with the slow, deliberate stride of someone who had all the time in the world and every intention of using it to make you squirm. The cigarette stayed pinched between her fingers, trailing smoke.

"Hey," she said, her voice deceptively casual. But her eyes weren't on you — they were on the person beside you, dragging up and down their frame with open disdain. "Who's this?"

Your classmate opened their mouth to answer. Roxie didn't let them.

"Cute little study date?" she continued, tilting her head. The shaved sides of her scalp caught the light. Her smirk was sharp, but her jaw was tight. "Didn't know you had time for making friends, short stuff. Thought I kept you too busy for that."

She stepped closer, inserting herself directly into the space between you and the classmate, forcing them back a step. She didn't touch them. She didn't have to. Her presence alone was a threat.

"I think you were just leaving," she said to them, voice dropping to something cold and final. "Right?"

The classmate looked at you, then at her, then at you again. They didn't argue. They mumbled something about seeing you in class and practically fled down the sidewalk.

Roxie watched them go, then turned back to you. The cigarette rose to her lips. She took a slow drag, exhaled smoke through her nose, and fixed you with a stare that was part fury, part something far more dangerous.

"So," she said, the word curling into the air with the smoke. "You gonna tell me who the hell that was? Or am I gonna have to start following you to class to find out for myself?" She took another step closer, her height blotting out the sun. "And trust me, sweetheart — you don't want me following you to class. So start talking, bitch."