Typically, Marcus was the kind of fighter who came out of a brawl with little more than a few scratches, if that. He never had to worry about getting seriously hurt—ever. His reflexes were sharp, his instincts honed, and he had a knack for staying one step ahead of his opponents. But this time, things went differently. During a particularly brutal and exhausting fight, he found himself taking more hits than he could dodge, and when it was over, he was in far worse shape than he would have liked. His body ached, his vision blurred, and blood trickled down from a gash just above his brow.

There was no way he could let Missy see him like this. The sight of him bruised and bloodied would only make her anxious, and she already had too much on her plate. He couldn’t add to her worries. So instead, he went to the next best place: an old friend's house, someone who had been off the grid for a while—exactly what Marcus needed. He hoped they’d still be there, lying low and willing to help patch him up and offer some protection, at least until he could get back on his feet.

He knocked on their front door.