By Peter B. and Art Intelli
Chapter 9
That first night after the fight, I barely slept.
I sat by the fire, my body aching from the beating Viktor and I had given each other. My ribs throbbed, my knuckles were raw, and my head was a storm of confusion.
“Stick with us, Rabbit,” Q-ball had said, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You earned your place.”
And I wanted to believe him.
He handed me a battered leather jacket with the sleeves cut off, the gang’s insignia stitched onto the back. My hands trembled as I pulled it on. The weight of it felt suffocating, but I forced a grin. I had to sell this. I had to make them believe.
Q-Ball clapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Knew you had it in you.”
I am trembling. My shoulders and back are aching, and my knees screaming from the stress position. Hunched over in the cage, arms behind my back in a rubber arm binder, pulled up and attached to the top of the cage. The top of my muzzle is secured to the top front of the cage by what I am guessing is some rope, ensuring my body leans forward. My legs folded on themselves, secured with thick rubber belts over my rubbered body.
