After Every Hit We Take Novels & Stories

} {And mind you… you will also get hit, host. "Huh? Hit?!" Ivy raised an eyebrow, her voice filled with disbelief. {Yes, host. But don't worry. Although it will be painful, it won't leave a scar. It's more like your body is being "painted" and after an hour, it will disappear.} "But I will still feel the pain?!" Ivy asked, letting out an incredulous scoff. Ding! {Yes. You cannot avoid being hit one or two times by your opponent. And once you are hit, you will definitely feel pain.}

The momentary distraction nearly costs me as his next strike barely misses my shoulder. Why is he bringing this up now? "Don't you think this is an odd time for that conversation?" I manage to say, blocking another strike. “Actually, I think now’s perfect,” he replies smoothly, his fist already darting toward my midsection. His words distract me just enough—I react too slow. The hit lands solidly, driving the air from my lungs. My stomach caves under the impact, and I double over slightly, a wave of pain radiating outward.

He mocked. The fourth hit came, followed by the fifth and the pain tore me up from the outside to the inside, bruising me deep down in places I haven't visited in so long, a very dark traumatic spot, a one locked tight with a big heavy door, but with every hit, the door rattled, threatening to unravel me at the seams, "I will leave him to have his fun with you," I heard him say, but I couldn't face him again not when the sixth hit came and my back arched, the sound of the cane wounded like a plank hitting the wall, "I will be back in a bit to resume my part."

They knew exactly what to do, and they did it with the practiced calm of those who have performed the action often enough or in similar enough ways that the slight variation hardly matters. One of them took my arms from behind me and held them tight. The other one hit me, from the front, in the stomach and the chest; low, hard, blows that would not mark the surface but that took a while to recover from. I breathed through it. I traveled within myself to the part that Sena had told me about; the part where the hitting and the impact and the sharp, specific sounds of it couldn't truly touch. I found the face of my

I had to show them that I was strong, that I could fight. And so I kept going, even when I felt like I couldn't take another hit. I took a hard hit to the jaw, and I felt myself go down. I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath out of me. I lay there for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

Then, before I could stop myself— “Is there a possibility that someone hits you so hard that you find it…”I paused. “Hot? Zane stared at me. “What?” “Not hot,” I corrected quickly. “Like… you like it? And want to be hit again?” Zane looked horrified. “That person would be sick.” He folded his arms immediately. “Mentally sick. Only psychos enjoy getting hit. What happened?” I went silent. What the— sick? Well, undeniably I was sick.

"Tomorrow morning at six , no pucks and positioning. If the timing is off by a frame, I kill the play." "It will not be off," Orion said. Arthur nodded once, a sharp gesture, then turned and walked out of the room. I let out a breath. Sat back down on the training table. The adrenaline was fading, leaving my muscles cold again. Orion did not say a word. He walked back to the counter, picked up the towel, and began to wipe the grey marker stain from my hand. "You are sure about this?" he asked softly. "It is the way we survive the series," I said. "If I keep taking those hits from Anton in the zone, something will break."

I say as I walk slowly trying to figure out his routine. "Not everyone is predictable. Some may always throw a right starting combination. But some people were trained to use both hands equally." Takoa tells me. He is talking about himself. Now I'm in trouble. I move in closer and prepare for the same punch but change up to aim for his torso. He dodges the first punch but I land the second. I slide between his legs as he tries to turn in time. I punch the back of his knees as he goes down. "Good!" He yells. "More. You can't let up when you get a hit. You have to finish them before they finish you. A pretty girl taking them down hurts worse than a broken bone."

All she could do was look around everyone's faces, with a puzzled look I read as 'how did the tables turn' And Sarah who couldn’t handle the attention, left the meeting humiliated, almost like she ran out—no loud scene, just the cold weight of facts. Retribution didn’t need theatrics. Surgical, clean, final. I watched her go with a small, private satisfaction. That would be my final act at Gigs—a tidy, public reminder of who she really was.