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mjonthetrack · 2 months ago

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Chapter 57: Broadcast from Hell

It started like any other off-season morning.

Monét was up early, still in one of Sefa’s tees and a pair of tight leggings as she laced up her sneakers at the edge of their bed. The Fatu estate was still quiet, the air thick with that sleepy peace you only get after a night of thoroughly earned exhaustion. Sefa had one arm flung across her side of the bed, dozing hard after their little “who's really single?” argument turned into a full-blown soul exchange.

But Monét was the type to keep it moving. Even with her thighs sore and her mouth still swollen from too many kisses, she wanted to get her session in at the company’s training gym. A little solo boxing work—nothing crazy.

The plan was simple.

Until the world turned on its head in seconds.

The Live

The screen jittered with shaky footage. Monét’s voice was loud and clear, attitude wrapped in rage:

"YOU FAT MUHFUCKA—IMA KILL YOU—REPORTING ASS BITCH—GET OFF ME—"

The comments were already exploding:

@shanthebaddie: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?? @NoDaysOffCoach: WHO TF IS THAT— @wifeywinsagain: OH NAH NOT MONÉT @sideline.menace: SHE’S FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE ON LIVE BRO @QB1_isKING: TAG SEFA NOW

Then the worst happened.

A masked figure came into view—gloved hand pressed a chloroform-soaked rag to her mouth mid-scream. Her legs buckled instantly.

Her wrists were snatched behind her, zip-tied like she was a damn package. The camera jostled and landed on the concrete, showing a glimpse of her limp body being tossed into the trunk of a beat-up silver sedan.

The trunk slammed shut.

Tires squealed.

The phone kept streaming for another twenty seconds, just the sound of chaos and the faint echo of voices outside the gym screaming.

Social Media Meltdown

@espnbreakingnews: BREAKING: Saints head coaching candidate Monét Ali has reportedly been abducted outside a private gym. More to come. @ballertalk: That live. That scream. That mask. This not a storyline. Prayers up. @celebslaydaily: Fans and celebs alike are SHOCKED after watching Monét’s live. IG influencer @jaya.rae tweeted: “Sefa better BURN the city down.”

Team Group Chat: “Saints Sinners”

QB2 Jaylen: “Yo is this real???” Linebacker Mook: “My girl crying rn dawg I swear—” Coach Simmons: “EVERYBODY STAY PUT. Sefa’s gone already.” Wide Receiver Tone: “I’m bout to slide, f*ck practice.” Assistant Coach Dani: “We on full alert. Nobody move stupid.”

Sefa

He was on the way to the gym before the phone even hit the pavement.

They didn’t even call him.

He felt it.

Mid conversation with his cousin in the kitchen, one of the twins had burst in with nothing but the look of horror on his face. “Bro… Monét. Live. Someone took her.”

His brain short-circuited.

Ten seconds later, Sefa was already tearing out of the driveway in that black F250, engine screaming, phone playing the last ten seconds of the live on loop.

That was her voice. Her rage. Her fear.

And that was some dead man’s hands dragging her.

The Family

His mother was crying in the living room.

Jimmy and Jey were on the phone with security, Jimmy already slipping a pistol into his waistband. His dad stood by the door, still as stone, jaw locked. Nobody dared speak to him.

Chanté had both hands on her head, pacing. “Nah. Nope. That ain’t happening. We not letting this go. That girl family now.”

The Streets React

@beyonce (yes, the real one): “We are watching. Find her.” @KingJames: “This not a movie. This is real life. Protect our women.” @NFLCommishOfficial: “We are working with law enforcement and extending full support to the Saints organization.” @TheRock: “To the man who took Monét Ali—I promise you, there are men already hunting for you. And you won’t like how this ends.” @Rihanna: “Somebody gon’ die behind her. I hope it’s televised.”

End Scene: The Calm Before the Storm

The city didn’t know it yet, but war had just been declared.

Sefa Fatu wasn’t tweeting.

He wasn’t talking.

He was moving.

The entire underworld of New Orleans was about to light up.

————-

Chapter 58: The Devil Went Down to Georgia

The F250 tires screeched into the gym’s lot so violently gravel flew. Sefa barely threw it in park before jumping out, his body moving before his mind could even catch up.

And there it was—her phone. Cracked, buzzing, still live. Lying in the sunlit gravel like a crime scene marker.

He grabbed it, flipped it around, and stared straight into the lens.

His face was carved in stone. Jaw tight, eyes empty. Not an ounce of softness in sight.

“I don’t know who you are…” His voice was low, cold, terrifyingly calm. “But I hope to God you believe in prayer.”

He leaned closer. “Because you’re gonna need all of it when I find you. That’s my woman. You better hope the cops get to you before I do.”

Click. Live cut off.

Social Media: Real-Time Panic

@CeceForbes: “He cut the live off. That man is going to kill whoever took her.” @CoachDonnie: “Y’all not understanding. That wasn’t emotion. That was intent.” @WifeyOnDeck: “That wasn’t a threat. That was a promise.” @TSMadison: “They messed with the wrong one. That’s a Samoan bloodline. He bout to burn the state down.”

But things got even darker.

An hour later, a different livestream began. New account. No profile pic. @thetruthhurts011

And what it showed? Was something out of a nightmare.

The image was dim. Flickering. Looked like a basement, cold and cemented.

Monét.

Chained to a metal chair. Ankles bound, wrists zip-tied in front, a filthy gag in her mouth. She was conscious—barely. Her eyes glassy but hard, refusing to give him what he wanted.

The camera zoomed out and there he was.

That same disgusting ex-reporter, now a walking hate crime with a twisted smile. His voice came slurring, drunk on ego and madness.

“This y’all Queen?” He spat on the floor. “This the big bad Monét y’all worshipping? I’m tellin’ you now—it’s lights out for this stupid Black bitch.”

He looked straight into the lens. “And tell that fake QB boyfriend—he better knock my head off in one hit, or I’ll be pimping her out right here. On Live. And I ain’t stopping.”

The Internet BLEW UP

@IssaRae: “This is SICK. Call in the damn Feds.” @StephenASmith: “We just witnessed a federal crime LIVE. Where is law enforcement?!” @SavageFenty: “Let’s just say this: when Monét gets out—‘cause she WILL—there better be hell to pay.” @NFL_Official: “We are aware. We are furious. And we are working directly with authorities.” @ShannonSharpe: “Get ready to watch a man’s soul leave his body. Fatu is comin’, and he not comin’ to talk.”

Back at the Estate

Sefa stood frozen in front of the giant screen in his den, the livestream on loop, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned bone white.

Jey had to pull Jimmy back from punching a hole in the drywall.

Their father’s face was pale with rage. Chanté was on the phone with their underground contacts. The Fatu clan was mobilizing.

“No police,” Sefa finally said, quiet, shaking. “Not yet.”

He looked over at Jey. “We track that IP. We find him.”

“And then what?”

Sefa stared dead ahead. Voice like ice. “I make him wish he was dead before I even touch him.”

———

Chapter 59: “You Gone Die Bout This Black Bitch”

The livestream didn’t cut.

If anything, it got clearer. The signal, strong. Intentional. He wanted an audience. Wanted the whole damn world to watch her break.

But Monét wasn’t made to shatter.

The camera caught the room from a wide angle now, propped up on something. You could see the basement’s sweat-slick concrete, the exposed pipes, the single bulb swaying like a noose.

She sat in that cold metal chair, hair matted, face bruised, one eye swelling, but her back was still straight. She was watching him. Calculating.

And he was close now—too close—muttering disgusting filth as he came behind her, reaching around for the clasp of her bra with those twitchy, sweat-stained hands.

The chat was in chaos: “NO NO NO WTF!!!” “SOMEONE FIND HER. TRACE THIS LIVE!!” “FIND HIS FACE. TRACE THE WALL. ANYTHING.”

But she wasn’t crying. Wasn’t begging. She waited.

Let him get cocky. Let him lean in, right beside her ear, breathing hard and gross.

And then—

CRACK.

She swung her head back with everything she had—caught him right under the chin. Skull to jaw. You could hear the impact.

He screamed. Stumbled back, holding his face.

She gasped for air, still bound to the chair but now yelling with every ragged ounce of breath in her chest:

“YOU GONE HAVE TO KILL ME, YOU PUSSY ASS BITCH—'CAUSE I AIN’T NOBODY’S DAMN VICTIM!”

Blood dripped from her nose, lips busted.

“AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ELSE,” she shouted, voice cracking, “IF I DON’T GET OUT THESE RESTRAINTS—YOU BETTER PRAY IT’S THE FEDS WHO FIND ME. BECAUSE IF MY FIANCÉ FIND THIS FIRST?”**

She leaned forward, wild-eyed. Laughing.

“YOU GONE BE PAINTING THE WALLS IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER WITH YOUR SICK ASS BRAINS.”

He roared—furious—and stormed toward her, backhanding her clean across the mouth. The hit sent her sideways in the chair, crashing hard.

The sound echoed. The camera shook.

She groaned in pain, head lolling—but then she laughed.

Laughed like her ribs weren’t bruised. Like her lip wasn’t split. Like he wasn’t terrifying. Like he was the one in danger.

He grabbed her face, roughly yanking her upright by the jaw.

And she spit—blood, saliva, rage—right in his face.

“YOU GONE DIE BOUT THIS BLACK BITCH.”

She bared her teeth.

“THIS NEW ORLEANS YOU FUCKING WITH, BRUH.”

Social Media: Real-Time Reactions

@UncleShayShay: “Yo… this man DONE. She got more fight in her than half the league.” @KekePalmer: “This ain’t even a movie. This is WAR. That girl a soldier.” @MeekMill: “Somebody drop the addy. Sefa and them boys got shooters for this type sh*t.” @NFLWifeGoals: “FBI, Saints Security, her fiancé’s whole tribe better be on this NOW.” @Rihanna: “You gone die bout this Black bitch.” [reposted with fire emoji and Fenty beauty link]

Back at the Fatu Estate

The silence in the room was louder than the chaos on screen.

Sefa stood perfectly still. Arms crossed over his chest. Chest heaving. Head down.

You could hear his brothers breathing heavy across the room, could see his mama holding back tears, Jey pacing like a caged wolf.

The live was still playing. But nobody moved.

Then:

“We trace it.” His voice was hoarse. Deep.

Jimmy nodded once, instantly dialing.

“I want him alive,” Sefa added. “But hurt. Let me finish it.”

Chanté: “You sure you want that on your hands, baby?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t even look up.

“If he lays another hand on her—there ain’t gonna be nothing left to find.”

—————-

Chapter 60: Rage Only

The livestream hadn’t ended.

It climbed from 15k views to millions—faster than news could catch up. Faster than moderators could shut it down.

Every corner of the football world, every newsroom, every locker room had tuned in.

And now they were watching hell unfold in real time.

Saints Group Chat Marcus (OL): “NAH WTF IS THIS—WHERE IS SHE” CJ (RB): “I’M GONNA FUCKIN THROW UP” Devon (Safety): “SOMEONE TRACE THE IP. NOW.” Coach Simmons: “We’re on it. Keep your phones open.” JJ (WR): “They see this? NFL seeing this???” Saints Owner: “Yes. And we’re already moving. I authorized private security. FBI involved now.” Marcus: “Sefa seeing this???” Simmons: “He’s watching. Don’t text him.”

Onscreen, the camera refocused. Zoomed in.

The man known now—confirmed by her—as David Greg, that same reporter who publicly tried to humiliate her, was pacing like he’d just snorted glass.

Ragged breath. Belt clutched in a twitching hand. Khakis sagging. Face hidden by a black ski mask, but his voice couldn’t be hidden anymore.

“You think this a fuckin’ game, huh? You think I ain’t got nothin’ to lose?”

He stepped forward, loosening the belt. Leather snapping through his belt loops with a hiss. The live chat exploded.

And she—Monét, battered but still her—lifted her head with a growl. Blood crusted in the corner of her mouth. One eye swollen.

“Come near me with that shit,” she snarled, chest heaving, “I’ma bite that bitch off.”

She spat near his shoes.

“You don’t want that, David Greg. You think I don’t know who the fuck you are? Even with that mask? You the biggest pussy walkin’ this Earth.”

He snapped—belt cracking across her thigh like a whip. The sound echoed. Her body jerked. But she didn’t scream.

She laughed.

“That all you got?”

Another strike. This one across the arm. She winced. But she looked straight into the camera.

Eyes wild. Fierce.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT NO TEARS.”

“Y’ALL BETTER COME WITH RAGE.”

Social Media:

@OBJ: “Nah. I’m already in NOLA. Somebody tag me where to go.” @TheRock: “FBI needs to move. Saints team—hold your brother down. Keep him from ending this man before he gets what’s coming legally.” @AngelaBassett: “This woman. This warrior. We are ALL coming.” @Beyoncé: [posts a black tile with Monét’s words in white bold text: “Y’ALL BETTER COME WITH RAGE”] @NFLCommish: “This situation is under federal jurisdiction. Law enforcement is fully engaged. Justice is coming.” @BleacherReport: “BREAKING: NFL officials and Saints organization confirm security and FBI task force en route to assist in recovery of Saints staff member Monét Ali. Details unfolding.” @MeganTheeStallion: “We not begging no more. Rage.”

The live kept rolling.

And the belt dragged on the floor like a snake, and David Greg muttered slurs—talking about how she was his now, how he’d break her down until she begged.

But Monét? Bound, bruised, barely able to sit upright—

She grinned.

“You gone die slow, bitch.”

————-

The camera shook for a second, tilted upward like the phone had been kicked. A muffled groan filled the frame—metal scraping concrete, chains rattling.

Then it refocused.

Monét’s lip was split. Her left eye already swelling shut. Her tank top strap was ripped and her wrists were rubbed raw from the restraints tied behind the back of the metal chair.

David Greg stepped back into view, his black mask now soaked with sweat.

“Nah… you wanted fame, bitch?” he growled, voice sharp and unstable. “Now you got the whole fuckin’ world watchin’.”

He walked around her like she was prey, dragging that damn belt, then grabbed a bottle of water and poured it slowly over her head. Mocking baptism.

Monét hissed. Her head snapped forward and she spat blood toward him again.

“What you gon’ do, David?” she rasped, hair slick to her cheek. “Post a lil thirst trap for the incels watchin’? You ain’t got no dick, no clout, and no spine.”

He snapped.

Dragged her chair violently to the center of the room—concrete, dark, empty except for a dirty mattress in the corner and that one dangling live camera.

“You really think they comin’?” he barked. “You think Sefa gon’ save you? That oversized motherfucker ain’t built like that. Saints ain’t savin’ shit. When I’m done, they gon’ drop both y’all like a bad fumble.”

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She screamed once—but it wasn’t fear.

It was fury.

“You think I ain’t recognize your little punk ass from that gas station bathroom, huh?” she panted. “You been obsessed with me since I was coaching my first damn game.”

He slapped her. A loud, harsh crack.

“You done talkin’,” he muttered, “Now I’mma show everybody what happens when a Black bitch steps outta place—”

And that’s when the team group chat exploded again.

Saints Group Chat CJ (RB): “IM DONE. WHERE THE FUCK IS HE???” Devon: “HE JUST HIT HER ON CAMERA AGAIN. HE’S GONNA—BRO HE’S—” Marcus: “I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I’M NOT WAITING ON NO BADGE” Coach Simmons: “SEFA. DON’T DO NOTHING STUPID.” Team Staffer: “Sefa’s gone. He cut off the live and left. With his brothers.” JJ: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE LEFT???” Marcus: “It’s over for dude if they get to him first.”

Back on the live, David Greg pulled out a burner phone, showing dozens of viewers' names watching silently.

“All y’all tuned in just to watch her scream,” he hissed. “She gone be the lesson.”

He threw the belt across the floor again, walked toward her, unbuckling his pants—

Until Monét, breathing hard, eyes wild through her one good eye, whispered:

“They comin’ for you.”

He paused.

“They gone paint the walls with you.”

Sefa's POV

The black F-250 ripped through the interstate like it was born in hell. Jey was in the passenger seat, fists clenched. Jimmy, Marcus, and Devon were in the truck bed, armored up with Kevlar.

Sefa’s jaw was tight. His eyes hadn’t blinked in miles.

And on his lap, her phone. Still warm from where it hit the ground. Still open to the last frame of her face. Bloodied, bruised, unbroken.

He pressed record. Face calm. Voice deadly.

“Y’all pray I don’t get to him first.”

Then he ended the live.

The nation had never seen anything like it.

The league was forced to respond. Media shutdowns were in place. But the world didn’t care.

This wasn’t just a Saints problem. This was war.

And rage had already been summoned.

—————

Chapter 61: No Victim. Just Rage.

The live was still rolling.

No filter. No censors. No mercy.

And what the world was seeing would haunt them forever.

Monét was chained to a metal chair bolted into the concrete floor of some godforsaken basement. Her face was a bloodied battlefield—one eye nearly swollen shut, lip split, cheekbone already blooming a deep purple—but her eyes? Her eyes burned with the kind of rage that could turn entire cities to ash.

David Greg—the washed-up excuse of a sports reporter turned deranged predator—stood in front of her, a grotesque silhouette backlit by a single flickering bulb. His khakis dropped to his knees. His boxers sagged, revealing a body that looked as diseased as his soul.

And the moment the camera caught the full view of his so-called threat?

The internet cracked in half.

The comments blew up in real time:

“OH HELL NAH” “HE TOOK HIS PANTS OFF AND GOT A DAMN PENCIL??? THIS SICK MF” “SHE STILL GOT HER MOUTH?? RIP TO HIM THEN.” “SOMEONE FIND HER. THIS LIVE STILL ROLLING.”

Even as her limbs dangled useless, Monét’s mouth stayed moving.

"Ain’t NO way God made you like this, bitch,” she croaked out through cracked lips, laughing from her diaphragm like the devil himself whispered in her ear. “You pulled your pants down thinkin’ you’d break me? That’s what you brought to the table?” She leaned forward, chains rattling. “That lil Vienna sausage? You bout to die for THAT?!”

David lunged. Her head snapped up.

“Try me. Please. I want you to. My teeth work just fine.”

Saints Player Group Chat CJ (RB): “THIS MF PULLED OUT A BABY CARROT ON LIVE?” Devon: “FUCK THE AUTHORITIES I’M TAKING A CHARGE.” Elijah: “SHE STILL TALKING SHIT. THAT’S MY COACH.” Monet's Assistant: “She’s stalling. Keep watching. She’s up to something.” Marcus: “Bro if I see this man before the cops do I swear on God.” Jey: “We got location pings narrowing. Fatu quiet. Too quiet.” Chanté: “Somebody hold Sefa BACK.”

Sefa’s POV – I-10, truck in motion He was driving like hell had opened behind him. Windshield shaking. Jaw locked.

Jimmy was in the passenger seat texting the GC, watching updates flood in.

But Sefa… he hadn’t blinked since the camera angle changed and caught full sight of David’s pathetic manhood, swinging like an afterthought in the corner of the screen.

He didn’t even flinch.

Not when David slapped Monét. Not when she spit blood in his face. Not when she laughed.

Only when she looked into the camera again—eyes feral, bloody teeth flashing—and screamed,

“I don’t give a FUCK about no tears! Y’all better come with RAGE!”

Sefa’s hand hit the dashboard.

“I’M COMIN’, KOLOHE!”

The tires screamed as he floored the gas.

Twitter/X, TikTok, and IG Comments in Real Time

“#FreeMonet #FindHerNOW trending worldwide” “Not her taunting him WHILE CHAINED. Queen.” “He exposing himself with that baby dick like we weren’t already disgusted.” “Monét is NOLA. We ride at dawn.” “Somebody call Beyoncé. Rihanna. Michelle. CALL EVERY BLACK WOMAN WITH POWER.”

Celeb Posts Roll In

Zendaya (IG Story): That’s OUR coach. You’re gonna pay for this. Kerry Washington: The world’s watching. And the world is coming. Megan Thee Stallion: You got her fucked up. Straight up. Don’t let us find you first. J. Cole: Ain’t no peace til she’s back safe. The Rock: Sefa… do what you have to.

Back in the Basement

David paced now, panicked and pissed, muttering to himself. The belt hung loose from his hand, and he hissed under his breath as Monét stared at him.

He lunged to slap her again—and she laughed harder.

“You ain’t breakin’ me. You makin’ me mad. You bout to see what happens when a bitch from the boot don’t got nothin’ left to lose.” She leaned forward, snarling—“You think you scarin’ me? You should be scared of what’s coming for you. ‘Cause if it ain’t me that gets loose first, it’ll be my fiancé. And if he finds you?” She grinned. Blood and all. “You’ll wish I’d killed you first.”

————

Chapter 62: Unchained Rage

The screen was still live. Still rolling. Still igniting every corner of the internet like an oil spill lit by a single spark.

Monét's body was battered, bruised, nearly limp in the rusted metal chair she’d been chained to for hours—but the fire in her eyes had only grown wilder. Wilder than hell. Wilder than any man could leash.

David Greg was growing cocky. He paced the room, mask halfway slipping off his sweaty, patchy-bearded face. His pants were back up, but his belt still dangled like a threat, swaying with every twisted step he took. He thought he had her cornered. Cracked. That hours of captivity and cruelty would finally break her.

But Monét Ali wasn’t bred for surrender.

“See,” he started, yanking roughly at the straps on her sports bra with one hand while the other fiddled with the camera angle, “this right here? This what y’all want, huh? This what the world love? A loud mouth Black bitch wit’ fake lashes and a whistle in her hand? I told y’all, these women—these Black women—they all bark. Easy fuckin’ targets.”

He reached again.

Bad move.

Because Monét didn’t hesitate.

She launched forward with every last ounce of fury she could muster, her jaws snapping open like a lioness cornered—and she bit down. Hard. Right into the soft meat of his forearm. Deep.

“AHHHH!!” The man screamed. Dropped the camera. Kicked the metal chair. Monét didn’t stop. She clenched until the taste of his blood hit her throat, until he stumbled back, eyes wild, shrieking like a child that touched fire.

She spit the blood out. Thick and dark. Let it roll slow down her chin like warpaint. Eyes locked on him.

And she started laughing. Laughing. From her belly. From her soul.

Then—eyes wide, maniacal, daring—she screamed toward the camera still capturing every frame.

“UNCHAIN ME, BRUH! I JUST WANNA TALK!”

Saints Facility - War Room Vibe

The team had gathered—trainers, staff, owners, even execs. Phones were up. Livestream projected on every screen.

CJ threw a chair across the room. Chanté was sobbing and cussing in two languages. Marcus paced so hard he was practically digging a trench into the carpet. Jimmy stood back to back with Sefa, who hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. Just breathing through his nose like a bull waiting on the bell.

Then it happened.

The bite.

Her scream.

“UNCHAIN ME, BRUH—”

Sefa’s fist hit the concrete wall. Blood ran down his knuckles.

Jimmy grabbed his shoulder. “Bro—bro she’s alive, she’s fighting, you gotta stay smart—”

Sefa didn’t blink.

“I’m not thinking. I’m ending him.”

Social Media MELTDOWN

“YOOO SHE BIT THAT MF! ON LIVE!!” “She said unchain me like it’s bout to be a fair one in the parking lot.” “Black women are different. I’d be weeping and she out here tryna square up while BLEEDING.” “She told him she just wanna talk. This shit cinematic.” “Someone make a shirt that say ‘UNCHAIN ME BRUH’ right now.”

Celebrity Reactions Continue

Issa Rae: Bite that mf again, queen. Rihanna (via Fenty page): The bra stayed on. The teeth came out. That’s fashion. Jay-Z: Find her. No excuses. Meagan Good: If she don’t win an Oscar off this IG live we rioting.

Back in the Basement

David clutched his bleeding arm, shrieking and kicking over the old table that had been recording the live. “You CRAZY bitch!” he hissed. “You gon’ pay for that! You gon’ learn—!”

Monét sat tall again, even chained, even broken.

“I bit you once, bitch.” Her voice was low, trembling but deadly. “You come near me again, I’ll leave you with one fuckin’ arm. Then I’ll make you eat it.”

The camera shook. Her head turned back to it. Wild curls sticking to sweat and blood on her face.

She gave the camera a lopsided smile. “Y’all better move with purpose. This sick-ass man losing blood. I’m about to get biblical in here.”

————-

Chapter 63: Unholy Ground

The livestream hadn’t cut.

It was still going.

Thousands… millions were locked in—screens gripped like lifelines, gasping, sobbing, cursing. Watching. What started as a grotesque act of violence had evolved into something else entirely. Something feral. Cinematic. Like the climax of a war film, except the battlefield was a blood-slick concrete floor in a Georgia bunker and the soldier was one broken woman in a sports bra and chains.

Monét had stopped talking.

She just started… laughing.

Low at first. Soft and sickly sweet, like the joke of the century was being whispered right to her soul. It built slow. A rasp that turned manic. Every broken breath dragging it louder. It was unnerving.

Like she’d snapped in the best way possible.

Her captor froze—crowbar in hand, blood still streaming from his chewed-up forearm. She didn’t scream. Didn’t plead.

She jerked one shoulder.

Clink.

Another jerk.

Clang.

The final bolt on her chair snapped loose with a metal shriek.

Monét rose. Shaky, lopsided. Still chained to the base of the chair, her legs quivering, barely under her control. Her face was bloodied, bruised, but that smile… that grin split wide like it hurt. It was beautifully deranged.

She tilted her head. Calm. “You wanna see what getting active look like?” Voice steady. Dead serious.

“Ion need my limbs.”

And she moved.

With every ounce of pure rage and strategy, she whipped her hip around—chair and all—and cracked it straight into the side of his knee. The crowbar clanged against the wall as he stumbled and fell back, hitting the ground with a yelp that was all pain and disbelief.

Her body gave out next. Legs buckled. She crumpled hard onto her side, gasping, but grinning harder.

“That... that felt good, bitch.”

Blood spilled from her mouth as she coughed, but her eyes gleamed sharp. “You think I ain’t recognize them Georgia trees, huh?” she hissed. “Seen that shit when you dragged me in this rusty ass bunker. And you ain’t even blindfold me. Dumbass. Gotta be the worst fucking criminal I ever seen. Whole FBI Most Wanted got better planning than your sorry ass.”

He growled. Snarled. Pulled himself up by the broken table and kicked her.

Crack.

The sound was sickening. A rib? Two? Didn’t matter.

She coughed blood again, body curling inward, wincing—but still smiling. A demon’s smile. Unshakable.

Cut To: Saints Team Facility — 3:24PM

The film room was chaos.

CJ punched a wall again. That was the second one today.

Marcus was on the phone with someone screaming in logistics. Chanté was sobbing with her fists clenched.

The team was all there. Trainers. Security. Coaches. Wives.

Sefa?

He was standing. Shirtless. Silent. One fist wrapped in gauze from punching through drywall. The other gripping the back of a chair so hard the metal warped.

Eyes locked on the screen.

Watching her laugh. Watching her move. Watching her fight with no legs under her.

Then that kick.

He flinched.

So did everyone else.

“Yo, somebody get him before he flies to Georgia without a damn plan—” “—We need to trace that stream—” “—This ain’t just football, bro, this our family now—” “—Call the goddamn league if we have to—”

Jimmy moved to Sefa’s side.

“You breathing?”

Sefa didn’t answer. Just whispered:

“Get the plane ready. I don’t care who gotta be on it. I’m not watching the woman I love bleed for another minute without blood being drawn back.”

Twitter/X/IG Live Comments:

“She bit him and now she beat him with a damn chair—WHILE STILL CHAINED.” “Y’all better put respect on Monét’s name—this some Harriet Tubman meets Kill Bill shit.” “That laugh??? Oh yeah, she’s not breaking. HE is.” “Feds better run, Saints better run, Sefa better sprint. That woman is buying time, and it’s running out.” “I need her whole origin story when this is over.”

Back in the Bunker

David Greg leaned against the wall, wheezing, bleeding, wild-eyed. His belt had fallen somewhere in the chaos. His pants half undone. Crowbar lost.

And Monét?

Still lying on her side. Smile never fading. Eyes bright with revenge.

She whispered toward the livestream camera now buried under a table but still filming.

“Y’all watching? Good. Tell ‘em I’m buying time. And my baby coming.”

“Y’all better pray he get here last.”

————

Chapter 64: Tick Tock, Bitch

The camera was still on.

Somewhere under a rusted folding table, tilted sideways, cracked lens smeared with blood—but it was on. The world hadn’t looked away for even a second.

Millions were watching now. It wasn’t just a livestream—it was a warzone feed. Commentators, analysts, rappers, celebrities, politicians, lawmakers—the world was tuned in to the ugliest, rawest real-time horror show.

And Monét?

She wasn’t done.

Her leggings were torn—ripped brutally by greedy, shaking hands. Her bruised skin exposed. Blood had dried along her torso, her lip was busted, her side ached with every breath, every movement of her broken rib dragging glass through her lungs. Her wrists were cut raw from the restraints.

But her eyes.

Her eyes lit up like a switch flipped.

Recognition.

A sign.

That last sliver of detail she’d caught when he was dragging her limp body out of the trunk, too drugged to fight but still watching through fluttering eyes. She knew what she saw.

She lifted her head slowly, smiling like death itself had whispered a joke in her ear.

He was right in front of her. Pants undone. Grinning. Breathing hard. Crowbar abandoned. No more theatrics. Just the ugly stench of a man drunk on power.

But Monét didn’t scream.

She grinned.

Cold. Bloody. Victorious.

“You fucked up,” she whispered hoarsely.

He hesitated, frown creeping in.

Her voice came sharp through the cracked silence. “Lagrange.” A wheeze. “I seen that green-ass sign when you threw me in ya trunk like damn cargo.” A darker chuckle left her throat. “You picked the wrong observant ass bitch.” Then she leaned up with her last strength, eyes locked on the camera. “Tick tock, you dumbass.”

CUT TO: TWITTER/X MELTDOWN

“WAIT SHE JUST NAMED THE TOWN—LAGRANGE. GA. SOMEBODY TRACE THAT—” “Y’ALL HEARD HER. SHE SAW THE SIGN. SHE BEEN CLOCKING HIM THIS WHOLE TIME.” “BRO WHAT KINDA BADASS SHIT IS THIS I’M SHAKING.” “SHE REALLY BOUGHT TIME WITH HER LIFE. GET HER THE FUCK OUT.”

Back in the bunker…

David froze. Stared at her.

That smile.

That defiance.

That confidence.

It unraveled something inside him. Something unhinged.

He snapped.

With a feral yell, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head hard against the wall behind her. Once. Twice.

Her body slumped. Heavy. Still bound. Blood trailing from her temple.

The world stopped.

The feed kept going.

The camera caught his heavy breathing, the sick joy curling into his features.

CUT TO: THE TEAM—SAINTS TRAINING CENTER, LIVE STREAM ON THE TV WALL

Silence. Horrified, dead silence.

CJ sat on the floor, his mouth covered, tears streaming. Marcus had collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. Chanté was screaming at a PR rep who kept telling her to stay calm.

Jimmy and Jey had just walked in. Deon was pacing like a lion, fists balled.

But Sefa?

Sefa had walked to the front of the room. His mother was at his side. His father silent behind him.

He was shaking. Eyes glued to the screen, teeth clenched so tight the muscle in his jaw spasmed.

“She saw the sign,” he muttered. “She named it.”

A hand clutched his shoulder—Jacob, solid, steady.

“Bro. She bought you a location. She bought it with her blood. She held that motherfucker off long enough to leave a clue.”

Sefa exhaled.

Then he turned.

“Get the damn jet.”

“You can’t go in alone, bro—”

“I’m not.” His voice dropped. A tone no one had ever heard before. “I’m not leaving this to the feds. I’m not leaving this to prayers. We go now.”

ONLINE COMMENTS POURING IN AS THE VIDEO CONTINUES TO TREND #1 WORLDWIDE:

“He knocked her out. LIVE. We saw it. Her blood is on our screens. DO SOMETHING.” “She gave us the town. Lagrange, Georgia. The cops better already be MOVING.” “Sefa finna burn the whole south down behind his woman.” “This turned into a revenge movie and we’re only halfway through.” “Free Monét. Save Monét. PROTECT BLACK WOMEN.”

CUT BACK TO THE BUNKER

David stood over her limp body.

Wheezing. He was spiraling.

“You think anyone gon’ find you? You think you smart?” he growled. “I been watching you. You black bitches think you're strong, huh?”

He turned back to the camera. Sweat pouring. Words slurring.

“I ain’t done. We ain’t done. You gon’ see what a real man is—”

LIVE SIGNAL INTERRUPTED.

The screen flickered.

Paused.

But the world had seen enough.

—————

Chapter 56: The Devil Walks Barefoot

The live feed stuttered—then picked up again, shaky this time, grainier in quality, like it had been dropped and picked up in haste. But the image was unmistakable:

Monét.

Unchained now.

Unconscious.

Her bruised body, limp and vulnerable, dragged across a cement floor by the same masked man. Her head thudded once against the edge of the doorframe, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

Outside, the air was thick and wet—Georgia woods under a heavy moon. The camera swung wildly, barely catching a glimpse of towering pines and a rusted-out pickup parked under brush. He was filming again, one hand yanking her by the arm like a ragdoll, the other waving the phone like a trophy.

“She ain’t even worth the price of the chains,” he growled into the lens. “Ain’t that somethin’? All that bark, all that mouth, and now look at her. Folded. Just like the rest of her filthy-ass ancestors. Whole bloodline full of mouthy whores and broken men. And tonight? One of them finally gonna pay their tab.”

He dragged her toward the truck bed, where a chain and a tarp waited. Somewhere behind him, cicadas screamed in the dark.

Comments exploded again, live:

“IS SHE DEAD?!”

“Y’ALL FIND HIM NOW.”

“CALL THE COPS. CALL THE MILITARY. CALL GOD.”

The villain leaned in to the lens, breathing hard. “Tell that bitch fiancé to come get her if he want her so bad. Tell him to meet me in the devil’s playground. I’ll carve his name in her spine next.”

Cut to the Saints facility—

Sefa had lost his jersey, pacing the office in a black compression shirt soaked in sweat. The replay of the live was still playing. Again and again. No one had turned it off.

Solo stood by the wall, his fists balled, eyes wet with rage. “He said her ancestors?”

“Keep watching,” Jimmy muttered. “He’s gonna make a mistake. One he ain’t walking away from.”

The screen cut to a slow zoom of the trees.

“Lagrange,” Sefa said under his breath. “That sign. She wasn’t out when she saw it. She said it.”

A tech analyst burst in, phone up. “We triangulated. Signal bounced three towers. He’s in a dead zone fifteen miles from LaGrange. Old hunting trails and bunkers used by survivalists.”

Sefa was already moving. “Say less.”

Cut to social media again—

Every celebrity, athlete, and even political figure was now tuned in. Names like Cardi B, LeBron James, Taraji, and Kamala Harris were sharing the clip with captions like:

“This country don’t protect Black women. We do. #BringMonétHome”

“We see you. We coming.”

The comments on the live? Still rolling:

“This MF wanna talk ancestors? They about to show tf up.”

“Somebody tell Sefa we riding out too.”

“We want blood.”

The world was watching now—not for entertainment.

For vengeance

————

Chapter 57: A Rope and a Reckoning

The live feed came back like static—jittery, unfocused, but still streaming. The pine trees swayed above, tall and indifferent, watching like ancient gods bearing witness to man’s evil.

A pale hand entered the frame first.

It gripped a thick, pre-looped rope, swinging it gently like a threat too familiar. The masked figure’s breathing was heavy now, fogging the screen in bursts as he stalked toward the body slumped in the back of the rusted pickup.

Monét.

Her body was bruised, bloodied, motionless—until he hoisted her up like dead weight. Her bare feet dragged against the gravel. Her leggings hung shredded from her hips. One eye was swollen near-shut, the other flickering.

She was alive.

Barely.

He dragged her by her arm like trash, stopping at the thickest tree in sight—an old southern oak, trunk wide and gnarled. Without ceremony, he slammed her against it. The sickening thud of her shoulder hitting bark echoed through the phone’s mic as her body crumpled to the dirt.

The camera caught it all.

From the edge of the screen, he appeared again—silent now, his gloved hands tightening the noose with almost reverent precision.

As he stepped closer, Monét groaned. The impact had woken her.

She moved just enough to turn her head, gasping in pain as air fought its way past her bruised ribs. Her lip was cracked, blood still dribbling down her chin, but she looked up at him.

Not with fear.

With something worse: disgust.

Her voice came out broken, gravel-slick and hoarse, but clear enough to gut the world watching.

"If you kill me, so be it," she croaked, head still resting in the dirt, "but I’m not gon’ cry for no white man."

The rope stopped swinging.

The figure froze, mask twitching toward the camera. He hadn't expected that. Hadn’t expected her to speak—let alone curse him with such venom while facing death.

He looked down at her like she was some hell-born thing, defying the role of victim even now.

"You got a smart mouth for a dead bitch," he spat, voice shaking now with something that sounded like rage—or fear.

The live comments came crashing in like thunder:

“OH SHE’S A FUCKING LEGEND.”

“DO YOU HEAR HER??? SHE STILL TALKING.”

“GET HER NOW. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

“SHE SAID WHAT TF SHE SAID.”

“SHE NOT GONNA BREAK.”

Cut to the Saints facility –

Sefa slammed his fist into the wall.

Hard.

The drywall cracked.

Jimmy held him back, barely. “Not yet. We got the coordinates. They triangulated the signal. He’s not far. Just wait a little longer.”

“I’m not waiting!” Sefa snarled, chest heaving. “He’s got a rope, J. He’s trying to hang her, dawg. Like this some lynching reenactment shit. I swear to God I will tear this man apart with my bare hands.”

Across the room, players were crying. Chanté had her hands over her mouth. Solo had gone cold and still, knuckles bone white.

The world outside? Crashing into a frenzy.

“You think Black Twitter won’t start a militia for Monét? BET.”

“Y’all better send SEAL Team 6 or Sefa gonna do it himself.”

“SOMEONE TELL TYLER PERRY TO USE HIS PLANE.”

Back on live,

The masked man stood over Monét, rope in hand, frozen as she started laughing again through bloodied teeth. Each breath a wheeze, every shake of her shoulders an act of war.

“You done messed up, Greg,” she rasped, using his name again. “You went viral on the wrong fuckin’ night.”

The screen froze on her bloody smile.

Cut to black.

Live feed ended.

———-

Chapter 58: Run, Monét

The live came back in a blur, jagged and unstable.

The camera was propped up now—accidental maybe, the angle crooked as it leaned against the base of a tree. The rope still swayed in frame, mocking the silence like a ghost that hadn’t claimed its victim yet.

He was offscreen, cussing. Loud. Wild. His words spat in every direction, drenched in failure and fury.

“Bitch think she funny?! I’ll drag your Black ass back here myself!”

But the camera caught it first.

Movement.

A figure, hunched and shaking, wobbled up from the dirt like something resurrected from a battlefield. Blood was smeared across her jaw, her ribs bruised dark beneath a torn sports bra. Her eyes were sharp. Ferocious.

Monét.

Her legs trembled beneath her, but she stood anyway—on pain and willpower alone.

And then—

She ran.

Barefoot. Injured. But sprinting like hell itself was behind her.

The screen shook violently as she disappeared into the trees, the foliage swallowing her whole. Branches clawed at her. Roots tried to trip her. But she didn’t stop.

Not for the cuts. Not for the broken rib. Not for the man yelling and crashing after her somewhere behind.

The world watching? Lost its mind.

“GO MONÉT GO MONÉT GO MONÉT.” “SHE’S STILL FIGHTING WTF.” “BAREFOOT AND BRUISED AND STILL A BAD BITCH.” “I’LL NEVER COMPLAIN AGAIN THIS WOMAN IS A WARRIOR.” “SEFA, GET HER. NOW.”

Cut to: Saints Facility

The room was chaos.

Someone dropped their phone, another player punched a locker so hard it bent inward. The staff was barking orders. Chanté was crying uncontrollably. Jimmy was pacing like a lion, yelling into three phones at once. A player had tears in his eyes, whispering prayers.

But Sefa?

Sefa was gone.

Literally. Had stormed out the moment she got on her feet.

The team barely caught the tail lights of his black SUV peeling out the parking lot like thunder, cutting lanes with no regard for the law. He wasn’t waiting on signals, or updates, or authorities.

He was headed to Georgia with one goal: get her back or die trying.

Back to live—

The masked man finally entered the frame again, panting, bleeding from the arm where she’d bit him earlier. Dirt clung to his shirt. His rage was animal now, primal and losing control.

He picked up the phone, muttering like a madman.

“I’ll find you, bitch. You mine. Ain’t no place you can run from this.”

But Monét was already gone.

Deeper into the wild. Running off adrenaline, instinct, and the fire of every Black woman before her who refused to die easy.

She was battered.

But she was free.

And now the world was watching, hunting with her.

———-

Chapter 59: Predator and Prey

The forest swallowed her screams.

Monét’s breath rasped in her chest like knives. Every step sent white-hot pain through her side where her rib had cracked, but she didn’t stop—not even when her bare feet tore open against the underbrush, not even when her vision blurred from the blood dripping into her eyes.

She ran like a woman possessed.

Like the devil himself was chasing her.

Because he was.

Behind her, crashing through the trees, was the monster she’d been taunting only minutes before. Still masked. Still screaming. Still furious that the prey he thought he’d broken had taken flight. She could hear him getting closer, cussing and panting like a rabid dog.

Monét didn’t know how long she’d been running—ten seconds or ten minutes—it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was she stay alive.

Suddenly, her eyes caught it: a tree.

Old. Gnarled. Bark thick and peeling like armor. Its lowest branch looked just high enough to reach if she jumped.

And with what little strength she had left, she did.

Her ribs screamed. Her shoulders burned. But she dug her fingers into the bark and scrambled upward, slipping once, catching herself with pure adrenaline and rage. Blood smeared along the trunk as she climbed, the wood biting into her palms.

She climbed until she was crouched on a thick limb, tucked against the tree like a feral thing, chest heaving.

Then she went still.

Her hand—cut and trembling—clamped over her own mouth.

Her eyes tracked the ground below.

He was close.

The leaves rustled beneath his boots. He was talking to himself again, low and frenzied.

“Where the fuck you go, huh? Ain’t nowhere out here but woods and bones. You think you a damn ghost now? I’ll find you. You mine.”

Monét didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

She pressed her face into the tree, hiding in its rough skin like it was holy. Her whole body trembled, but her mind was ice. Focused. Dead silent.

He stopped walking.

Right beneath her.

He sniffed the air like a beast. “I can smell you, bitch…”

She clenched her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. Blood was trickling down her thigh from the scrapes. Her teeth rattled against her palm, holding back a scream.

Then—

He moved.

Wandered deeper into the trees, grumbling curses, his voice echoing as he vanished again into the dark.

She didn’t move for a full five minutes.

Not until she was sure.

Not until the sound of his boots faded entirely and the woods grew quiet again, save for the wind and her own heartbeat.

Then, finally, she exhaled.

A single whisper of breath, escaping like a ghost.

Still alive.

Still hers.

And still fighting.

She clung to the tree like it was salvation, resting her cheek against the bark, whispering to herself hoarsely:

“You gon’ die before I do, bitch.”

———

Chapter 60: Breath Between Branches

The forest began to breathe again.

It was subtle at first—the rustle of leaves, the hush of wind weaving through pine needles, the distant call of a bird—but the chaos had thinned. The footsteps were gone.

And Monét was still there.

High in that old tree, her arms locked around the trunk like a lifeline, legs dangling weakly from where she'd braced herself on a crooked limb. Her cheek pressed into the rough bark, smearing more blood than sweat now. Her breath was slow, too slow. Shallow.

She was slipping.

Her eyes rolled half-closed, lashes sticky with tears she didn’t even remember crying. Her lips parted just enough for a whispered gasp.

“Still here. Still me.”

Below, unseen by her, the forest’s calm was broken again—this time not by her captor, but by something worse for him and better for her.

The sky hummed.

A drone, small and silent, buzzed overhead—its lens tracking movement along the forest’s edge. Zoomed in. Caught a frame.

There.

A man stumbling out of the tree line, panicked, bloodied, sweating through his clothes. Still masked. Eyes darting. He limped toward the cracked two-lane road that cut through the woods like a scar, thinking he’d outsmarted everyone.

He didn’t see the black SUVs tucked behind trees across the way.

Didn’t notice the unmarked chopper tracking his position from above.

He only knew that she had vanished.

And now, somewhere on the road near the Georgia/Alabama border, the feds had eyes on him. They didn’t move yet. Not without command. But the sighting spread like wildfire through encrypted feeds.

Someone in the media leaked it within fifteen minutes.

“BREAKING: FBI confirms suspect linked to Monét Ali’s kidnapping spotted near Georgia state route. Tactical teams en route.”

Comments exploded across social media.

“THEY GOT HIM?!”

“Don’t touch him—wait for Sefa.”

“Somebody tag that fine Samoan man before he gets there first.”

“He better PRAY Sefa don’t catch him first cause y’all remember what he did to that linebacker last season and that was just over a flag.”

Back in the forest, Monét clung to consciousness.

She didn’t know how long she’d been up there.

Didn’t know her name was trending again—this time alongside “miracle” and “madness” and “baddest bitch alive.”

But her fingers never loosened from the bark.

Even as the wind picked up.

Even as her eyes fluttered again, and her head dipped.

Even as her body started to slide sideways, limp from the branches.

One hand held.

Barely.

And then—a sound.

Not boots this time.

A helicopter. Distant but getting closer.

Still, she didn’t move.

Didn’t wake.

The camera caught none of this.

But the world was watching.

And the man who loved her was getting closer by the second.

————-

Chapter 61: The Final Step

Sefa’s heart pounded in his chest as his SUV tore down the dirt road, the engine roaring like an angry beast, and his knuckles white from gripping the wheel so tight. His mind raced, too—flashing images of Monét, her face bruised and bloodied, her eyes wild with fear.

The media had already blown up, but he couldn’t look. He couldn’t focus on the screen; there was only one thing that mattered—getting to her. He had to. He couldn’t afford to lose her. Not after everything.

Not after what they did.

As he neared the forest's edge, he could see the flashing lights of multiple FBI vehicles parked up ahead, their sirens cutting through the thick, humid air. His stomach twisted as his eyes flicked over the scene. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he could feel it—he wasn’t the only one pulling in. The moment his car slowed, he saw a team of agents holding down a man, slamming him onto the pavement.

A familiar figure.

Monét’s captor.

David Greg, the reporter.

His face was twisted in fury as they cuffed him, throwing him to the ground. The agents were quick to subdue him, but Sefa could still hear the muffled curse words escaping his lips as they dragged him away. It wasn’t enough. None of it was. He needed to see her. He needed to—

There was no sign of her.

His breath hitched as his eyes swept the scene again. No Monét. Not in the cars, not in the tents set up by the feds. She wasn’t anywhere.

His stomach dropped, his head dizzy with a surge of panic. The image of her crumpled in that tree, helpless and alone, burned in his mind. The phone call, the news feed, none of it had prepared him for this emptiness.

Where the hell was she?

The agents moved quickly, continuing to assess the scene, but Sefa had no patience. He shoved the door open, leaving the car running, and stormed toward the officers. One of them turned his head, his face tense, but Sefa was already past him, scanning the forest.

“She’s not here, man, she’s not here!” Sefa shouted at the agent as his gaze cut across the dirt road, his voice raw, desperate. "I don't give a damn about this asshole, I need her, right now."

The agent shook his head, trying to calm Sefa, but there was no calming him. His mind was a blur, everything spinning. His only focus was Monét.

Then his eyes locked on something in the distance.

Just beyond the trees.

There.

A figure.

A body slumped against the bark of a tree.

It wasn’t just any figure.

It was Monét.

Sefa’s heart shattered. He didn’t wait for anything, didn’t even give the agents a second to react. He moved, his legs pumping, and his body crashed through the underbrush as his eyes stayed locked on her.

The closer he got, the clearer the sight became.

Monét, pale as a ghost, her body trembling in the aftermath. Her face was dirty, covered in bruises and blood, but she was alive.

Just barely.

She was still breathing, but it was shallow, labored.

His breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside her, hands shaking as he gently touched her cheek, trying to wake her, to bring her back.

“Monét, baby, hey, wake up.” His voice cracked as he called her name. His palm slid against her skin, hoping for any sign of life.

Her body shifted slightly, just enough for her to blink her eyes open for a moment, groggily lifting her head to meet his gaze. She looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real, or if this was all just a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

He squeezed her hand gently. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Monét’s lips parted, but her words were barely audible, the sound of them nearly drowned by the sound of his pounding heart.

“Sefa...” Her voice was weak, but there was fire behind it. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t let them take me.”

His breath hitched again, and he pulled her closer, cradling her to his chest. She was still shaking, but there was a new sense of urgency in his body. The world had stopped around them. The flashing sirens, the FBI agents, none of it mattered. It was just him and her.

He didn’t care who he had to face. He didn’t care who was in his way.

Sefa pulled Monét into his arms, lifting her despite her injuries, and he whispered in her ear as he looked back toward the agents who had now caught up to him.

“Let them come. Let anyone come for you. I’m not letting you go, not now, not ever.”

———————

Chapter 62: Behind Closed Doors

The chaos had barely begun to settle when the truth started to twist itself into something far more sinister.

To the public, David Greg—the disgraced ex-reporter turned kidnapper—was being transported back to Georgia to face charges. It was on every screen, every network: "Captured. Justice Served."

But that wasn’t what happened.

Not really.

What no one knew was that the team owner, Malcolm Darnell, had intercepted the transfer. A quiet, powerful man known for sitting in the back of rooms and pulling the strings, he didn’t wait for the legal system. He paid to get the bastard rerouted. No courtrooms. No media spectacle. No headline-happy trial.

Just silence.

Greg was dragged into a private meeting room inside the Saints’ corporate offices—now turned makeshift underground HQ. Still bloodied, bruised, and barely coherent from the feds' takedown, he was slammed into a steel chair, his cuffs digging into his skin. The lights above him were too bright, buzzing faintly. Surveillance cameras were pointed in every corner. And Malcolm sat at the head of the long table, his hands steepled, jaw tight.

No security. Just him.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out,” Malcolm said coldly, voice low, calm—like a man used to issuing ultimatums that couldn’t be refused. “You thought a little race-baiting, misogynistic filth like you could go viral at my organization’s expense and live?”

Greg looked up, dazed, mouth cracked from where he’d been hit.

“I ain’t scared of you—”

Malcolm stood.

“You will be.”

The door slammed shut.

Meanwhile…

Monét was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

She lay in a dimly lit, private medic ward hidden deep inside the Saints’ training facility. One of the only places Malcolm trusted to keep her secure—truly secure. She wasn’t just anyone. She was family now. She was the face of the team. And after what she survived? She deserved to be surrounded by protection and power.

No hospital stay, no paparazzi. No outsiders. Just people who had her in mind.

Sefa hadn’t left her side. Not once. He sat in the chair by her bed, holding her hand like it anchored him to the earth. Her body was still weak, bandaged and bruised from the trauma, but she was here. Breathing. Fighting. Alive.

Every breath she took, he took with her.

The Fatu family had packed in earlier that morning—silent, heavy with emotion. Chanté had to be held back from storming into the woods herself when she saw the footage. Deon’s face stayed stone cold. Jimmy and Jey had stood shoulder to shoulder in a rage so thick it turned the air electric.

And then there was Malcolm, who stepped in quietly during the visit and just looked at her. No words. Just a solemn nod to Sefa.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, voice grave but steady. “She’s not going to a hospital. I paid out-of-pocket for the best trauma team. No records. No leaks. No one touches her unless I say so.”

Sefa nodded. There was no argument. He didn’t care about the money. He cared that Monét had a chance to come back whole.

But outside those walls?

The internet was rioting.

The team was silent—press-wise. But they didn’t have to say anything. Celebs, fans, the league itself—they were all watching the Saints now. And they were watching him.

Sefa went dark online. His last post? A photo of her hand in his—bruised, but still with her engagement ring clinging to her finger.

Caption: Try me again. I dare you.

And somewhere in the depths of the building… as Monét stirred for the first time since being brought in, her eyes fluttered open.

And the first thing she saw?

Sefa, still right there. Holding her down like the roots of a storm-proof tree. Eyes bloodshot, but wide with relief.

She blinked weakly, throat dry, voice barely above a whisper.

“...You didn’t let go.”

His voice cracked when he answered.

“I never will.”

———

Chapter 63: No Trial, Just Sentence (Louisiana Cut – Death Row)

The basement wasn’t just dark—it was a tomb. The walls unfinished, the air sour with mildew and something else: fear. It reeked off David in waves, tied to that chair, ankles and wrists bound tight with zip cords that cut into skin. No more smirks. No more jokes. Just him and the consequences, finally closing in.

Sefa entered slow, like death didn’t need to rush. The door shut with a metallic clang that echoed off concrete.

David raised his head, lips crusted in dried blood, one eye completely shut from the earlier beatdown.

“You think you can kill me?” he rasped.

“No,” Sefa said flatly, pulling off his hoodie to reveal the long-sleeve compression shirt underneath, now soaked with sweat and fury. “I know I can.”

He picked up a crowbar resting in the corner. Heavy. Rusted. Personal.

And then it began.

No yelling. No rage-filled roar. Just work. Systematic, deliberate. He started with David’s shins—crack—a sound like a baseball bat connecting with bone. David screamed so loud the walls vibrated. But it didn’t stop.

Crack. The other shin.

Snap. A knee bent the wrong way.

David writhed in the chair like a ragdoll, tears and snot pooling on his ruined face.

“You like filming women suffering, huh?” Sefa growled low, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look into the phone camera now recording. “Say her name again. Say Monét’s name. One. More. Time.”

David whimpered.

So Sefa grabbed the crowbar again, this time slamming it across his collarbone—shatter.

“Thought so.”

He threw the crowbar down and dragged a toolbox from the corner. Inside: zip ties, duct tape, a socket wrench, jumper cables, a small blowtorch—every man has a line. David crossed Sefa’s.

“You ain’t dying fast,” he said, calmly pulling the table closer. “Fast is a favor. This? This is justice.”

He taped David’s mouth shut. The rest? Happened in agonizing silence. A wrench to the fingers until they crunched. A cable wrapped around a broken leg, twisted slowly like tuning a guitar. A cigarette lit with the blowtorch held to his forearm. And when David passed out from the pain?

Sefa woke him up.

Smelling salts. Ice water. A slap across the face with a soaked glove.

“I said wake up. You don’t get to sleep until I say.”

Blood covered the floor. The chair legs. Sefa’s boots.

Finally, he stepped back, chest heaving.

“This don’t erase what you did,” he said, voice low but deadly. “But it makes sure you never try again. Never even thinkabout another Black woman like that. Like she don’t matter. She matters more than your next breath.”

Then he grabbed the chair—tossed it sideways like it weighed nothing. David’s broken body slammed to the ground, moaning barely.

Sefa knelt beside him. Whispered, “You’re not dying in here. But you’ll wish you did.”

He stood, wiped the blood from his knuckles, opened the door, and walked out like a soldier done with war.

Back upstairs, Monét still lay resting, wrapped in warm sheets and IVs pumping strength back into her bones. She didn’t know yet.

But when she woke up?

The first thing she’d see was Sefa.

Unbloodied. Calm. Whole again—because the devil in him had just been fed.

And justice?

Justice had a name.

——————

Chapter 64: Bigger House, Bigger Heart

The room was quiet now. Monét's breathing shallow, but steady, machines humming low like a lullaby for the broken. The soft beep of her heart monitor was the only rhythm holding back the fear in Sefa’s chest.

He sat at her bedside, one massive hand wrapped gently around hers—thumb moving in slow circles over her bruised knuckles. The rage that had once lit his veins like napalm had cooled, now replaced by something heavier. Love. Guilt. The kind of ache no fight could fix.

Her eyelids fluttered, lashes sticky with dried tears. She winced.

“Hey,” Sefa leaned in instantly, voice low, thick with emotion. “I’m here, baby. You’re good. You’re safe.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the warmth of his hand ground her.

Then, voice rough like gravel but still with that same bite of attitude tucked behind it, she rasped out:

“I think… we should get a bigger house.”

Sefa blinked. “Huh?”

Her eyes opened slowly, glossy but focused, barely holding up a weak smile through the pain. “One with a bigger tub... and double locks on every damn door... and a backyard so big you can’t even see the fence.”

Sefa let out a low, broken laugh, more pain than humor. “You already designing the safe house, huh?”

She nodded just a little, eyes falling shut again, breath hitching. “That shit… hurt so bad, Sefa. I ain’t even gone lie.”

“I know,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “I know, baby.”

“I kept thinkin’... if I don’t make it out... you’d never know how hard I fought to come back to you,” she said, barely above a whisper now. “It was you. You were the reason I kept breathing. I ain’t want nobody else to hold my name like you do.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.

“I would’ve ripped the whole damn country apart to find you,” he said, forehead resting against her hand. “You made it. You made it. And I swear to God, Monét, nothing—nothing—is ever getting close to you again.”

Her lips curved just slightly, fading into a tired whimper. “Then start with that bigger house, king.”

He smiled through clenched teeth. “Say less.”

And with that, she drifted back to sleep. A warrior who’d survived hell, finally resting in the only place she trusted—his presence.

But Sefa? He was already building. Not just a house. Not just a fortress.

A kingdom.

Because his queen? She deserved nothing less.

Her breathing slowed again, body curling inward slightly as the meds tugged at her consciousness. But just as Sefa reached to adjust her blanket, her swollen lips parted, voice barely a whisper—raspy but undeniably her.

“One more thing…”

Sefa leaned closer, brushing her hair back, “Yeah, baby?”

Her eyes didn’t open, but her mouth tugged up into the faintest, most wicked smirk.

“When I heal up… you owe me compensation… and no rubbers.”

Sefa blinked—then burst out laughing, forehead dropping to her arm as a mix of relief, love, and lust crashed through him like a tidal wave.

“Oh, so you back back,” he murmured, biting his lip, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Say less. You getting all that. No interruptions. I’m talking light dimmed, doors locked, candles lit, legs over my shoulders compensation.”

But she was already out cold, lips still curved in that evil little grin. And Sefa?

He sat back, hand still wrapped in hers, eyes staring at the woman who never lost her fire—even when the world tried to extinguish her.

Yeah.

She was alive. And soon as she was healed? He was going to love her like hell for surviving it.

No rubbers. Just war cries in silk sheets.

——

#x black oc #romance #solo sikoa x black oc #solo sikoa fanfiction #solo sikoa fic #mature fic

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