CHAPTER 37: The Fugitive Part 8

CHAPTER 37: The Fugitive Part 8

Lucio slid backward with the grace of a feline, his weight perfectly distributed, every muscle relaxed but ready. His posture was a living mockery of the concept of effort.

"Let's fight, Rogers," he announced, his voice a flat echo in the vast hall. "Here. Now. I want you to attack me with everything you think you have. Don't hold back." A thin, cold smile spread across his lips. "Because I certainly won't."

Fénix let out a short, harsh laugh, crossing his arms with an arrogance that was pure defense mechanism.

"Really? This reeks of one of those cheap 'learn by getting your ass kicked' lessons. Do you really think I need you to teach me how to—?"

The air was severed. There was no warning, no change in Lucio's expression, no tensing of muscles. Just a flash of movement, and then Lucio's fist—a hammer of flesh and bone—sank into Fénix's solar plexus with the concentrated force of a torpedo.

The impact wasn't a blow; it was an internal detonation. Fénix flew backward, the world turning into a whirlwind of lights and roaring sound. He crashed against the padded metal wall with a dull, metallic crunch that spoke of structures stressed beyond their limit. The steel plate buckled, molding around his body for a fraction of a second before gravity reclaimed him and he fell to his knees, gasping, spitting saliva and a thin line of bile.

Lucio hadn't even changed his posture. He pointed a finger, like a teacher disappointed with a particularly slow student.

"Lesson number one: A loose tongue is dead weight. In a fight, your mouth should be closed and your mind, open. More action. Zero words."

Fénix got to his feet with agonizing slowness, every movement a protest from bruised muscles and wounded pride. He wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of saliva. A crooked smile, more a rictus of pain than amusement, escaped him.

"Fine. If that's how you want to play..."

He lunged forward, this time without warning. His fist shot out like a piston towards Lucio's face. It was fast, lethal, charged with the Lycan strength burning in his veins.

And it was completely useless.

Lucio moved. It wasn't a dodge; it was a disappearance. He vanished from the point of impact and reappeared to the side, his own arm a whip that connected with Fénix's jaw. The crack of teeth was audible. Before Fénix could process the pain, a succession of precise, devastating blows hammered his torso, his ribs, his diaphragm. Each impact drove him back, stealing his air, his sanity, his composure.

For an instant, a fraction of a second, Fénix saw an opening. A slight carelessness in Lucio's guard. With a grunt of effort, he landed a punch on his instructor's right arm. It was a solid, well-placed hit. He felt, with fierce satisfaction, the joint in Lucio's shoulder give way with a sickening pop and dislocate.

He straightened up, panting, a blood-stained smile of triumph on his lips.

"How about that, master? Still think I'm s—?"

Lucio didn't scream. He showed no pain. He looked at his arm hanging uselessly with an almost academic curiosity. Then, with a movement that defied all anatomy, he used the momentum of his own dislocated arm like a flexible club and swung it forward, propelling his body with it. His forehead, hard as granite, smashed into Fénix's.

The world exploded into white. Fénix was thrown to the other end of the room like a rag doll, landing in a shapeless heap.

«Bravo, little wolf.» Adam's voice surfaced in his mind, a whisper sweet and venomous like powdered sugar on poison. «Is this the infinite potential you sold me? If you keep this up, Lucio is going to use you to mop his gym floor. Perhaps I should have bet on him. At least he knows how to fight.»

Fénix growled, spitting blood onto the pristine floor.

"Shut up," he muttered through his teeth, forcing his body to respond, to stand up once more. "This... isn't over."

Lucio, from the center of the room, looked at his dislocated arm with annoyance. With a quick, expert motion, he pressed it against the wall and, with a sharp push and a horrible crunch, popped it back into place. He shook his hand, flexing his fingers.

"Is that all?" he asked, his tone one of deliberate boredom. "Come on, Rogers. Prove to me you're not just a punching bag with an attitude."

Fénix took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in his skull, and prepared for another assault. But just as he was about to charge, Lucio raised a hand.

"Wait. Look at your abdomen."

Fénix looked down. Embedded just below his rib cage, almost invisible against the dark fabric of his sweat-soaked workout clothes, was a small metal stiletto. It was no longer than his thumb, thin as a needle. He hadn't felt it. Not until now. A cold, heavy numbness was beginning to spread from the point of insertion, like ice spreading through his veins.

"That little trinket," Lucio said calmly, "has been there since the first blow. You didn't even notice? Tsk, tsk. You're not just slow of reflex, you're slow of perception. Lesson number two: Pain is a distraction. Always check for damage immediately after impact. The small details are what kill you."

Fénix, with movements that were already becoming clumsy, grabbed the stiletto and pulled it out. A drop of thick, dark blood welled from the tiny hole. He dropped it. The numbness accelerated, paralyzing his muscles. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, then onto his side, completely immobile on the cold floor. He could breathe, he could blink, he could think. But he couldn't move.

Lucio approached and leaned over him, his shadow covering him completely.

"Neuro-paralytic toxin. Non-lethal. It keeps you conscious so you don't miss the lesson. The perfect situation for learning, right?"

His gaze was cold, analytical.