Jack Gilinsky Imagines Fight Novels & Stories

I jumped as my phone buzzed in my pocket, waking me from my thoughts. "Alpha we're having trouble on the border. The rouges are attacking. The pack needs orders" My hand tightened around the phone. "Prepare for battle, I'm on my way." I didn't wait for a reply before hanging up. ********************** "This movie makes no sense, how in the world did this gain a fanbase?" Jocelyn laughed, "Not everyone over analyses every moment of each movie they watch." I was about to reply but my phone rang. I listened to the news wordlessly then checked my watch.

Ordinary humans fight with numbers, after all. Yet, these five weren't panicking—they still had Jack. A veteran fighter, a killer, and fierce in combat—Jack could inspire fear and confidence in equal measure. Jack fixed his gaze on Geronimo, adrenaline coursing through him. Oddly, he didn't feel much pain; it was more confusion and suspicion. Why did Geronimo have a knife? Why hadn't Geraldine warned him? Could there be a trap somewhere? Doubt gnawed at him, and he hesitated. He didn't want to fight recklessly, risk mutual destruction, and let a third party profit.

“I shifted. I fought hard.” “You remember how you fell,” Kendrick asked. “I remember the last blow,” Jack said. “Then nothing.” Silence filled the tent. Kendrick sat back. His mind moved fast. Gilly asked softly, “Were they waiting for someone else.” Jack nodded slightly. “I think so.” “Who,” Gilly whispered. “I do not know,” Jack said. Kendrick stood. “This is enough.” He looked at Jack. “You did well. But next time, you do not go alone if something seems to be lurking.”

I go down hard, sliding on the dirt, the bike scraping loud, and something stabs deep when I hit a rock. The rival riders circle fast, wearing masks, and one has a knife out. Jackal's men, I know right away from the way they move. I shift partial claws out and fight back, slashing one across the arm when he comes close and kicking another off his bike. The third stabs at me and gets my side deep, blood pouring warm down my shirt, but I grab his wrist and twist hard, breaking it. He screams and drops the knife.

We do not have to win, actually we are not expected to… but we have to prove our worth and out smarts in a fight. The ginger is called first. He steps into the ring, and his opponent, a massive second-year student with a jagged scar across his nose, steps forward. The fight is brutal, short, and one-sided. The ginger has power, but the second-year has technique. He uses the boy's own momentum against him, tripping, sidestepping, landing sharp, precise blows. The ginger goes down, gasping, a foot pressed to his throat. The crowd roars its approval.

Hips. I know these men. I’ve bled with them. Trained with them. Gotten drunk with them. And today I’m fighting them. They’re all solid. Fast. A little unhinged. Especially when it comes to Mel. And I get one shot at this. Do I go for Jackson while I’m fresh? Or try to thin the herd first? I raise my hands, fists guarding my face. Right leg back. Knees bent. Balanced. Poised. My body settles into something instinctive and dangerous.

Just enough to bring him down. He yelps. Stumbles. We’re on him immediately. Pin him to the ground. Our weight on his back. Our jaws near his throat. He struggles. Tries to throw us off. We hold firm. Beta Jack starts counting. “One… two… three…” Joric thrashes harder. “Four… five… six…” His movements are getting weaker. “Seven… eight… nine…” He goes still. Accepting defeat. “TEN! Winner—Remy Anderson!”

“I wouldn’t want to go easy on you.” The tension crackled, the crew murmuring in anticipation as the two men squared off, circling one another like lions poised for a hunt. Gabriel moved deliberately, solid and grounded, while Lucas danced around him, quick and agile, reflecting the vast differences in their fighting styles. The air was thick with anticipation, a moment suspended between the impending clash and the unspoken stakes that lay beneath the surface.

Why did Greg let him go up? God. What should I do in this situation? What would James say? — Run, Angel, like in training!— His stiff voice echoed through my brain. However, I never listened to him. I always hated the orders the security guards gave me, I felt like a baby. And I wasn't. An uproar of anger and fear mingled in my blood, but the anger stood out, giving me the courage to drop all my belongings on the floor (a few bags and a notebook) and approach with smoke billowing from my nostrils.

And still — he looked up with that same damn defiance that made me fall for him in the first place. There’s a look men give you when they know they’re losing but refuse to accept it. It’s the look that wins wars or starts them. The look that says I’d rather die than kneel, you bastards. Elky Jennings had the phrase tattooed on the inside of his skull. I tried to run to him. I didn’t get that far. A rifle butt slammed into my ribs. I staggered back a step, then another, bent over like I’d just had dinner with all my bad decisions. But I didn’t fall.