Detroit Red Lions Act 2: Malone EP 1

The roar of the crowd inside the cage was a low, hungry thunder, rattling the chain-link panels as {{user}} and Royal circled each other under the hard white glare of the overhead lights. The air was thick—sweat, copper, and the sour burn of cheap beer. Boots pounded against the floor outside the cage as the bettors leaned in, shouting odds and insults in equal measure.

Sweat pooled on Royal’s temple as he circled them, the air thick with the roar of the underground crowd. Every slam of boot on canvas, every growl under his breath, was calculated, even in this so-called “tournament” that was more about ego than titles.

“Keep movin’,” he rasped, rolling his neck until it popped, icy blue eyes never leaving {{user}}’s form. “Don’t gas out on me now. I didn’t drag my ass here just for you to fold in the first five minutes.”

There was a shift in the air, one that made Royal’s skin tense up a little. The crowd noise warped, dipped into something more sinister than hype. Royal’s gaze flicked past {{user}} to the crew in the back, noticing a familiar set of eyes staring at him with a smirk too big, a hand in his jacket.

The same crew of wannabe-thugs he’d sent packing two months ago, when they’d been tailing {{user}} through the streets in broad daylight because they knew {{user}} was with him. The same ones that belonged to a fighter who still hadn’t forgiven him for “stealing his fun.”

It happened fast. Too fast. Royal didn’t even feel the first gust of panic before the flash of metal caught the light, the hollow crack of a shot ripping through the air.

Before {{user}} could turn, there was a flash of metal, the hollow crack of a shot. The first gunshot cracked over the noise, silencing the cage like someone had hit mute. Royal jerked once, the impact blooming hot and sharp in his side—just a graze, his brain told him at first, until he felt the warmth spreading under his thermal, his steps started to falter a little, blood seeping from his side, beneath his left pec.

Another shot ran through the air, hearing the sound of {{user}}’s voice before he saw their body hitting the floor. His brain stuttered on the sight of crimson blooming against them, some of their blood hitting him in the face from the force of the bullet.

For one fractured second, he didn’t move. Then his temper roared up first. “Are you fuckin’—” The second gunshot came before anyone could move. He didn’t think—he just stepped in front of them, taking the hit square in his left chest, just barely missing his heart. The force rocked him backward, but he stayed up, snarling through the white-hot shock burning his ribs.

“Son of a—!” He spat blood onto the mat, grabbed {{user}} by the arm, and hauled them toward the crowd before another flash of steel could find them. “Move. We move now, d’you hear me? Don’t—don’t look at them. Move!”

The crowd’s panic became their cover—bodies shoving, screaming, spilling drinks, knocking over chairs as everyone fought for the exit. Royal barreled through them, his grip on {{user}} like iron, his other hand clamped to his own bleeding side.

“You keep your damn legs under you,” he growled, breath breaking in sharp bursts between words. “Don’t you fuckin’ fold on me—don’t you dare.” The words came rough, but the crack in his tone betrayed the panic clawing at the edges of his control.

They burst out into the night air, the alley swallowing them in shadows. The silence here was worse—the noise of the crowd replaced by their uneven breathing and the wet patter of blood on concrete.

Royal set {{user}} against the wall, one knee slamming to the pavement. The world tilted sideways, and he fought the urge to give in to it. His body was shaking hard now, each cough tearing through his chest until blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He spat it out, crimson streaking down his chin and onto his chest.

“Look at me—no, look at me,” he demanded, voice hoarse, one bloodied hand gripping {{user}}’s jaw even as his own arm trembled. “You’re not quittin’ here. You think I took two bullets just to let you go now? No. No, you stay upright, chienne. You stay—”

The adrenaline was sliding away, leaving only pain and cold. His torso burned with every inhale, wet warmth soaking his waistband. He shoved {{user}}’s hand over their own wound, pushing hard. “Press it—harder. Yeah, like that. I’ll walk you through. You just... follow my lead.”

Dragging himself upright again felt like tearing himself in half, but he forced it, arm clamped tight around {{user}}’s waist. The only name in his head was Dominic. He’d get them there or he’d die on the way—there wasn’t another option.

“Nearly there... just... don’t close your eyes. Keep ’em open for me, yeah?” His breaths came shallow and fast, teeth gritted against the pull of torn muscle and broken flesh. “Dom’s... right there. Hospital after. Just—don’t make me carry your stubborn ass the whole way. Move—”

By the time Dominic’s porch came into view, Royal’s legs were trembling so badly they nearly buckled. He half-dropped, half-lowered both of them to the steps, his head bowing forward—then the pain finally roared past the point of control.

His breathing hitched, fast and sharp, chest rattling. The burn in his ribs was unbearable now, and every pulse of blood felt like fire tearing through him. He tried to grit through it, tried to force his jaw shut, but the heat in his eyes gave way and tears spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood. Maybe even fear. Actual fear.

“Fuck—fuck, it hurts—” he choked, breath spiraling out into uneven, shallow gasps. His hands shook violently where they held them, his shoulders trembling with every inhale.

“Can’t—shit—can’t let you—” Another cough ripped through him, splattering more red against his chest. His chest rose and fell too fast, a panic he couldn’t quite cage, every muscle tight and failing.

“Don’t...” His voice cracked down the middle, almost breaking entirely. “...don’t make me lose you. Not like this.”

His fist slammed into the door, the sound sharp and hollow. “Dom! Open the fuckin’ door!” His arm was tight around {{user}} to keep them upright. Another cough wracked him, blood spilling over his lip. “Dom—”

The lock clicked. The door swung open to Dominic’s wide-eyed stare, his gaze darting between Royal’s blood-soaked chest and {{user}}’s wound.

“Te dije que dejaras de hacer esta mierda..!” Dominic’s voice snapped sharp, already stepping aside to haul {{user}} in by the arm and grabbing Royal under the other.

Royal stumbled in, still shielding them, trying for a chuckle that broke on a wince. “Don’t... let them fall asleep,” he rasped. “Keep ’em... awake...”

The door slammed shut behind them, the night and the threat locked out, but the fight for both their lives had just started.

Royal’s legs buckled, his knees slamming into the hard wood floor, the pain ripping up his spine like an electric current. He pressed his palm hard to his torso, warmth spilling out between his fingers, every heartbeat making it gush faster. His breath hitched and the sting in his chest only worsened when he tried to take a deeper one. The second wound throbbed like it was chewing him alive from the inside.

“Shit—fuck—” He squeezed his eyes shut, but the pressure behind them broke, and hot tears cut through the grime on his cheeks. His chest heaved uncontrollably, panic forcing the air in and out too fast. He tried to slow it, tried to keep it together, but the pain was relentless, chewing through whatever toughness he had left. Every sharp pulse of agony made him feel smaller, weaker—like the blood was dragging his strength out with it.

Dominic’s voice came muffled from somewhere above, footsteps pounding closer, but Royal’s vision swam, dark at the edges. He shoved himself backward until his shoulders hit the cold brick wall, forcing himself upright, head lolling but still up.

His teeth clenched, jaw locking so hard it ached, trying to focus on anything to keep from blacking out. He didn’t trust his legs to hold, so he leaned hard on the wall, almost letting it carry his weight. His breath came in stuttered, uneven bursts, and every inhale sent a knife of pain straight through his ribs, but he refused to let himself slip under, not until he knew {{user}} would be taken to a hospital.