2. The Weight of Wealth

Their hand closed around the bills, and for a moment, they just stared at them, trying to comprehend this unexpected turn of fortune. "Thank you," they whispered. "I don't know what to say."

"There's no need to say anything," I said, standing up. "Just take care of yourself, okay?"

As I walked away, I glanced back to see the person still looking at the money. It was a small act, but it felt significant. In the cold, lonely night, it was a fleeting connection in a world where I increasingly felt disconnected.

Approaching my building, I passed Gene, the doorman who always greeted me with a discreet nod, never questioning my late-night returns or mentioning them to others. I handed him the rest of the money, a silent thank you for his discretion. He accepted it with a surprised, grateful smile, and I headed upstairs.

The elevator ride to my penthouse was a solitary journey, a time to reflect on the night. The physical pain from the fight was nothing compared to the realization that, like a drug, I was starting to crave more of it.

And just like a drug, overindulgence meant my tolerance was high, and I needed it more and more to feel the least bit satisfied.

Still, in the ring, under the dim lights and amid the roar of the underground crowd, I found a fleeting respite. The raw violence, the sheer physicality of the fights, was my escape from the complexities of my emotions.

As I crossed the threshold of my penthouse, the difference between the world I had just left and the one I was entering hit me hard.

Here I was, enveloped in luxury, yet emotionally barren.

My home's opulence, high ceilings, and masterful art directly contrasted with the underground fight club's raw, real brutality. It felt so much more real down there.

As Hawk, I surrendered to a wild, primal side of myself while in that ring. But here, in the quiet luxury of my penthouse, I was Wyatt again, cloaked in success yet drowning in an ocean of isolation.

The door clicked loudly in the quiet penthouse. The soft light of the living room lamp flickered on, revealing Penelope curled up under a blanket she had taken from my bed.

She had been asleep, waiting for me.

It didn't surprise me. She often did this. She had a key, and her apartment was in the same building.

We had made this decision together for convenience, but it now served as a silent testament to my constant need for her presence. 

She knew it. I knew it. Neither of us ever said it.

"4:30 am, really, Wyatt?" she murmured, the clock ticking in the background underscoring her words. "We have that meeting with the investor in three and a half hours, remember?"

As she sat up, her eyes landed on my battered face. The shift in her body was immediate. From sleepy annoyance to a mix of shock and anger. "What happened to you?" 

I stood there, torn between the urge to reveal everything and the instinct to protect her from the darker aspects of my life.

The adrenaline still coursing through my body made me unusually cocky during these interactions, and she hated it. I relished watching her get flustered with me. 

 Penelope stared at my battered face, her eyes widening in shock before narrowing in anger.

"What the hell, Wyatt?" she exclaimed, her voice sharp. "Not again!"

I couldn't help but grin. "You should see the other guy, Penny."

Her anger only grew at my casual response. "This isn't a joke! Do you have any idea how you look right now?" She stood with her hands on her hips, her frustration evident.

Ignoring her anger, I tried to deflect with humor. "I think 'ruggedly handsome' would be the term you're looking for."

"That's it. I'm done playing around, Wyatt," she snapped, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the bathroom. She pushed me down onto the closed toilet seat and rummaged through the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of alcohol.

"This is going to hurt," she warned. I braced myself, knowing what was coming. She wasn't gentle as she poured the liquid over my knuckles. The raw flesh burned under its touch, and I couldn't suppress the hiss that escaped. Rolling my head back, I tried to focus on anything but the sting, yet I kept looking back at her.

As Penelope worked, a strange calm settled over me. It deviated sharply from the pain.

The soothing presence of her touch against the sharp sting of the alcohol. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, reminding me of how many times we'd been in this exact situation. 

Despite the pain, I found comfort in these moments. There was something reassuring in her care, a familiarity I welcomed and feared in damn near equal measure.

Our eyes met occasionally, brief moments that spoke volumes. There was an unspoken tension between us, a current that ran deeper than friendship. A quiet, almost electric tension lingered, unacknowledged but always there. These moments, where she tended to my wounds, were intimate in a way neither of us admitted aloud, yet we both knew it.

Penelope's focus on my injuries was meticulous, and her movements were efficient. This routine had become part of our unspoken agreement. She'd patch me up, and I'd deflect with humor or silence, never revealing the full extent of my nightly activities. Her hands moved with ease, bringing a sense of peace amid the chaos of my life.

When she finished, she sighed heavily. "Wyatt, are you ever going to tell me what causes all of this?"

Again, I stood there, torn between the urge to reveal everything and the instinct to protect her from the darker aspects of my life. She put me in this position often. 

So damn frequently, I was starting to wonder how long I would be able to manage this duel existence before it all came crashing down on top of me.