A Reckoning on the Road - Part 3: The Fight

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I stepped off the bike.

My boots hit the ground, and it felt like stepping into the ring—heartbeat spiking, muscles taut, no way out but through.

The air around the cage was electric—thick with pressure, like a storm waiting to split the sky.

He saw me coming.

And he stopped pacing.

His eyes locked on mine.

I reached for the lock, half-expecting it to be rusted shut.

It wasn’t.

It clicked open with terrifying ease—like it had never really been locked at all.

The door creaked.

He exploded.

He lunged—fists flying, teeth bared.

No words. Just fire. Just fury.

And I fought back.

We hit the ground hard—gravel in my mouth, his knee in my ribs, my elbow in his throat.

It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t clean. It was raw.

A tangle of limbs, breath, blood, and bone.

He fought like he’d waited years for this.

Like every excuse I ever made was a bruise he had been forced to wear—and now he was giving them back.

I threw him off. He came back harder.

I shouted—“I’m not trying to hold you back—I just don’t know HOW to move forward!”

But he didn’t care.

He slammed me into the bars that once held him, teeth bared, voice shaking the air:

“Then DO ANYTHING. Fucking stumble if you have to. Just stop pretending this cage is protection!”

Tears surged up, hot and sudden. But he wasn’t done.

“Make something. Say something. Show them who you are—even if it’s messy, even if they hate it. You’re letting me die in here!”

The words hit like truth wrapped in shrapnel.

But beneath the rage, something shifted.

He was burning out. We both were.

I got a hand around his neck, rolled us over.

He spat in my face, still snarling.

But the edges were softening. The heat was breaking.

Our bodies stilled.

Dust, sweat, breath.

He looked up at me, eyes wide, chest heaving—

And for the first time, he looked human.

Not a demon.

Not a threat.

Just a younger version of myself.

He had held too much—vision, depth, desire—with no form or outlet, no doorway to pass through.

And I had caged him—because I couldn’t carry the weight of his longing.

He stopped fighting.

Not because I won.

Because he had been heard.

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Stay tuned for Part 4: The Message