The sun had barely cleared the Manhattan skyline when Angel Salvadore stepped onto the rooftop deck again, this time without the exhilaration of her first flight. Her body still tingled from yesterday's transformation. Her mind buzzed with everything Ryan had unlocked inside her. But today wasn't about flight or power.
It was about proving she could fight without any of it.
Ryan stood beside her as she approached the center of the rooftop. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.
"You remember what I said yesterday?" he asked, voice quiet.
Angel nodded. "No powers. No wings. Just fists."
He gave a single nod. "You're going to fight someone who's had time to grow into her strength. You won't win today, Angel. That's not the point. What matters is how far you push."
Angel swallowed, exhaling slowly. "Understood."
From the other side of the rooftop, Angel Dust emerged.
She wore black combat leggings and a sleeveless compression top, her dark hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid. Her body was leaner than before, having lost the heavy bulk she once carried. Her build now was honed and sculpted—a dangerous fusion of athleticism and power, reminiscent of her peak MMA days. The transformation wasn't just physical; it was intentional. She had evolved, shedding the excess to better fit this era, to match her sisters, and compete more visibly for Ryan's attention.
She moved with a calm confidence, her steps quiet but heavy with purpose, each movement precise and disciplined. This was a fighter who had trained for war, not applause.
Her eyes settled on Angel Salvadore with quiet scrutiny.
"So," she said, cracking her knuckles, "you're the girl who just grew wings."
Angel straightened, offering a respectful nod. "Angel Salvadore."
"Cute," Angel Dust replied with a crooked grin. "I'm Angel Dust. Looks like we've got the same name. Let's see if we've got the same grit."
Ryan raised his hand. "No powers. No wings. No energy blasts. Pure physical combat. If either of you goes beyond that, the match ends."
Angel Dust glanced at Ryan, then back at Angel Salvadore. "Understood."
Angel tightened her gloves. She had sparred before—bare-knuckle clubs, street training, things she barely survived. But this... this was different.
Ryan dropped his hand. "Begin."
Angel Dust moved first.
She closed the distance in a blink—her steps nearly silent on the rooftop tiles. Angel barely got her guard up before a straight jab snapped toward her nose. She jerked left, the fist grazing her cheek.
Then came a hook.
Angel ducked, pivoted, and threw a knee toward Angel Dust's ribs. But her opponent was faster. She caught the leg mid-motion and flung her sideways.
Angel hit the ground hard, rolled, and popped back to her feet.
Her chest burned.
She's stronger than I thought.
"First lesson," Angel Dust called. "Don't let a bigger woman or man get inside your guard."
Angel said nothing, breathing through her nose. She stepped in cautiously this time, fainting a left jab before going low. She drove a shoulder into Angel Dust's midsection, aiming to off-balance her.
It worked—for a second.
Angel Dust stumbled but twisted her hips and reversed their positions, catching Angel in a waistlock. Her arms squeezed like steel girders.
Angel grunted, trying to elbow out, but Angel Dust lifted her clean off the ground and slammed her backward onto the deck.
Ryan didn't react.
Angel lay there for half a second, dazed. Her back burned.
Then she rolled out, got to her knees, and stood.
Angel Dust waited patiently. No gloating. No smirk.
"You're resilient," she said. "That's good."
Angel circled. She threw a low kick. Angel Dust blocked with her shin. They exchanged a flurry of blows—fists to shoulders, elbows to ribs. Angel's breath grew ragged.
But she adjusted.
Instead of trying to match strength, she shifted her strategy. Quick footwork. Ducking under swings. Chopping at legs.
She got in under Angel Dust's guard and landed two body shots.
Angel Dust grunted.
Angel tried a third punch—but Angel Dust caught her wrist, twisted it, and yanked her forward into a knee to the stomach.
Angel doubled over.
But before Angel Dust could finish the move, she dropped to one knee and swept her opponent's legs.
Both women hit the ground.
They grappled.
Sweat poured down their faces. Fists cracked into shoulders. Knees slammed into thighs.
Angel got behind Angel Dust, locked her arm across her throat.
But Angel Dust powered through, grabbed her elbow, and flipped her onto her back.
This time Angel stayed down longer.
Ryan called, "Thirty seconds."
Angel groaned. "Still more?"
Angel Dust offered her a hand. "You can stop."
Angel slapped it away and stood up herself.
"Good," Angel Dust said. "Then let's end it right."
They stood across from each other—bruised shoulders, dirt-smeared cheeks, fists trembling. No blood, just the raw tension of two bodies pushed to their physical edge.
Angel Salvadore made the first move this time. She charged, unleashed a combo of three jabs and a right cross.
Angel Dust blocked all but the last.
The cross landed. Angel Dust's head snapped slightly.
She answered with an elbow to Angel's temple.
Angel reeled.
Angel Dust swept her legs. Angel fell again.
Ryan raised his hand. "Enough."
Angel lay on the ground, panting, body aching. Angel Dust stepped back, shoulders rising and falling.
"You lost," she said, walking over.
Angel blinked up, chest heaving. "Yeah... I noticed."
Angel Dust reached down and offered her hand again.
This time, Angel took it.
"You lost," Angel Dust said again. "But you didn't break. That's what matters."
Angel pulled herself up, her hand still in Angel Dust's.
"We'll get you there," she added. "You've got fire."
Ryan approached, nodding. "You fought hard. Tomorrow, you train harder. But today—you passed."
Angel wiped the blood from her mouth, smiling through the pain.
Angel Dust bumped her fist.
"Sister," she said.
Angel returned the gesture.
"Sister."
To be continued…