Damon didn't sleep that night. He sat on the canvas, staring at the stars, replaying the conversation with Ortega. The fear in the man's eyes. The way his voice cracked when he said "they'll kill me." Ortega wasn't a criminal mastermind. He was a middleman. A messenger. A man caught between powerful forces, trying to survive. Damon understood that. He understood fear. He understood doing things he wasn't proud of to stay alive. But Ortega had helped the Dravens. Had moved their money. Had made their crimes possible. And now he was going to help bring them down. Dawn came slow and gray. Cruz was already in the backyard. Shadowboxing. His fists cut through the morning mist. "You look like hell," Cruz said. "Didn't sleep." "Ortega?" Damon nodded. "He agreed to talk. To meet my lawyer." Cruz stopped. Turned to face him. "You

Leo's safe house was a basement apartment on the north side of the city. The building was old. Red brick. Chipped paint. A laundry mat on the first floor. Apartments above. The basement had its own entrance, hidden behind a dumpster, down a flight of concrete stairs. Damon helped Ortega down the stairs. The man could barely walk. His face was swollen. His ribs were bruised. Every step was a battle. "Almost there," Damon said. Ortega didn't answer. He just kept moving. The door at the bottom of the stairs was steel. Reinforced. A keypad on the wall. Damon punched in the code Leo had given him. The lock clicked open. Inside was small. A bed. A bathroom. A table with two chairs. A refrigerator humming in the corner. No windows. No phone. No way in or out except the steel door. Ortega collapsed on the bed. Closed his eyes. His chest rose and

Elaine Park's office~ The reception area was packed. Clients. Witnesses. A woman with a black eye sat in the corner, clutching a folder. A man in handcuffs sat next to a bail bondsman. The phone rang constantly. The receptionist with pink hair answered each call with practiced efficiency. Damon walked through the chaos. The envelope with the evidence was tucked inside his jacket, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat. He knocked on Elaine's door. "Come in." Elaine sat behind her desk. Her black hair was pulled back. Her glasses sat on her nose. She looked tired. Dark circles under her eyes. But her sharp eyes were focused. Ready. "Sit," she said. "And close the door." Damon sat. Closed the door. The noise from the reception area faded to a muffled buzz. He pulled the envelope from his jacket. Set it on her desk. "What's this?" Elaine aske

Damon didn't sleep again. He lay down, staring at the stars, running through every conversation, every face, every name. Leo. Cruz. Elaine. Tommy. He had eliminated them one by one. But someone was still feeding the Dravens information. Someone close to him. Someone he trusted. The text message haunted him. "Nice try, Corso. But Tommy isn't your rat. Keep looking." The Dravens knew about the meeting at the pier. They knew he suspected Tommy. They were watching him. Always watching. But how? Damon sat up. His ribs screamed. He ignored them. He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through his contacts. Stopped on a name. Marcus. Damon had never trusted Marcus. The bald man worked for Frank. Frank was connected to the Dravens. Marcus had asked to fight him specifically. Marcus had smiled when he heard Damon's name. Marcus was the rat. It made sense. Marcus worked at the pit. Marcus heard everything. Marcus knew about the fights, the tournament, the money. Marcus could have told Frank