Detective Nikolov "Dragon" Dante stood outside Mike Ridgway’s isolated home, the weight of the warrant heavy in his pocket. The house loomed ominously against the night sky, its silhouette jagged and menacing. Dante’s senses were razor-sharp, his blood thrumming in his veins. There was something about this case—a gnawing premonition—that made his skin prickle with dread. This wasn’t just another arrest. This was personal. Every instinct screamed that Mike wouldn''t be taken without a brutal fight.


    Pushing open the unlocked door, Dante stepped into the stifling silence. The air tasted metallic, thick with the stink of rot and decay. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing a living room turned battlefield—papers strewn like a haphazard confession, overturned furniture, and the faint flicker of a bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting erratic, skeletal shadows across the walls. His voice broke the stillness, low and commanding. "Mike Ridgway. This is Detective Dante. I have a warrant to search your home. Come out now."


    For a moment, nothing. Then, from the depths of the house, the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps. His body tensed, preparing for the worst. From the basement doorway emerged Mike, a sickening grin stretching across his face. The calmness in his eyes only made the danger more palpable—his gaze, cold, calculating, full of twisted amusement.


    "You finally made it," Mike''s voice slithered, low and raspy. "Took you long enough, Detective."


    Dante’s hand tightened around his flashlight, the bone-white knuckles standing out against the black. "This ends tonight, Mike. Don’t make this harder than it has to be."


    Mike’s chuckle echoed through the house, a guttural sound that sent a tremor down Dante’s spine. "Harder? Oh, Detective, you haven’t seen hard yet."


    In the blink of an eye, Mike lunged, his arms extending like a viper''s strike. Dante sidestepped instinctively, his body reacting with lethal precision. Mike was fast—unnervingly so—but Dante had trained for years in Muay Thai and Taekwondo. His muscles, conditioned and honed, moved like a reflex.


    A jab shot out, snapping Mike’s head back, followed by a cross that slammed into his jaw with bone-crunching force. Mike staggered, but his eyes flashed with renewed fury. He swung, wild, ferocious. Dante ducked under the punch, his knee surging into Mike’s abdomen, the crack of impact reverberating through the room. Mike grunted, but didn’t falter. With terrifying strength, he drove Dante into the wall, the force of the collision jarring his bones.


    Dante’s vision blurred momentarily, but he planted his feet, grounding himself. His elbows whipped out like battering rams, each strike landing with brutal precision against Mike’s skull. One hit Mike squarely on the temple, the sickening thud echoing in the silence. Mike stumbled back, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but a guttural growl left his throat.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    “You’re good,” he said, wiping the blood away, his eyes gleaming with maddened ferocity. “But so am I.”


    And then, it was chaos. Mike charged again, a whirlwind of brutal aggression. Dante countered, a feint to Mike’s legs, followed by a spinning back fist that struck him square on the cheekbone. The crack of the impact sounded like the snap of a twig, but Mike roared, stumbling back only to throw himself forward again, tackling Dante to the ground. They rolled in a tangle of limbs, struggling for dominance.


    Mike''s hands found Dante''s throat, squeezing with the force of a vice. Dante’s vision spun, black spots dancing across the periphery as his breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. His hands clawed at Mike’s grip, nails raking across skin, but it was futile. The pressure increased. Dante''s survival instincts screamed. He slammed his knee up into Mike’s ribs with everything he had, the sickening crack reverberating through his body. The hold loosened.


    With a surge of adrenaline, Dante twisted their positions, the momentum of the struggle swinging in his favor. He pinned Mike beneath him, raining down blow after blow—each one fueled by the memory of every life Mike had torn apart. Blood spattered across his knuckles, splashing the floor, but Dante didn’t stop. He couldn''t. Not until Mike’s thrashing slowed, until the light in his eyes began to fade.


    But Mike wasn’t finished. With a guttural roar, he bucked Dante off, throwing him aside like a ragdoll. They both scrambled to their feet, bruised, battered, and bloodied, but neither willing to relent.


    Mike reached for a nearby chair, swinging it like a battering ram. The wood splintered against the wall as Dante deftly dodged the attack, the noise echoing through the hollow house. He retaliated with a devastating kick to Mike’s knee, a sharp, brutal strike that forced Mike to stumble. Dante closed the distance, slamming his elbow into Mike’s chest with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind from his lungs.


    The fight bled through the house, spiraling into the kitchen. The sharp scent of oil and decay filled the air as Mike’s hand shot out, grabbing a knife from the counter. The blade glinted in the harsh light. Mike slashed at Dante, the metal singing through the air. Dante ducked, his breath steady despite the chaos, his focus absolute. Mike’s swings were frantic, but Dante had already anticipated his next move. As the knife came slashing down, Dante moved in close, grabbing Mike’s wrist in an unbreakable grip.


    With a brutal twist, he disarmed Mike in one smooth, violent motion. The knife clattered to the floor. Without missing a beat, Dante planted his foot squarely on Mike’s chest and delivered a roundhouse kick that landed with a sickening crack. Mike’s jaw snapped sideways, his body crumpling like a ragdoll. He fell to the ground, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness took hold.


    Dante stood over him, chest heaving, his breath ragged from the brutal exchange. His hands were coated in Mike’s blood, his body battered and bruised, but his resolve was unbroken. He reached for his cuffs, securing Mike’s wrists with mechanical precision. He called for backup, his voice cold as ice, as he surveyed the wreckage. Mike’s reign of terror had ended, not just by the law, but with the very fists that had brought justice.


    The house, a sickening shrine to Mike''s atrocities, stood in ruins around him. But for the first time in years, the weight on Dante’s chest—on his soul—lightened. The Green Riverside Killer was no more