The warehouse was louder than before. Three hundred men packed the space. Standing room only. The air was thick with sweat and anticipation. The platform had been reinforced again. Thicker plywood. Heavier ropes. Brighter lights. Frank stood in the center, raising his hands for silence. "The semifinals," Frank announced. "Damon Corso versus Goliath." The crowd erupted. Damon climbed onto the platform. His body was tight. His ribs ached. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh white tape. Across the platform, Goliath climbed up. The man was enormous. Six-foot-five. Three hundred pounds. Maybe more. His arms were thicker than Damon's legs. His chest was a wall of muscle. His face was hidden behind a black mask, only his eyes visible. Cold. Empty. Hungry. The crowd chanted his name. "Goli-ath. Goli-ath. Goli-ath." Damon remembered Cruz's advice. Don't stand

The next two days passed. Damon trained. Ate. Slept. Repeated. His body was a machine now, operating on routine and willpower. The pain was constant. The exhaustion was endless. But he kept moving. Kept pushing. Kept fighting. Cruz didn't let up. He never did. "Marcus is going to try to take you to deep water," Cruz said, circling him in the ring. "He's going to drag out the fight. Make you tired. Make you sloppy." Damon threw a combination. Jab. Cross. Hook. Cruz blocked each one. "Then I won't get tired." "You will. Everyone gets tired. The question is what you do when you're tired." "I keep fighting." "Good. Now again." Damon's phone buzzed during a water break. Elaine: "Emergency motion denied. Court date is tomorrow. 9am. Don't be late." Damon's heart stopped. Tomorrow. Not three days. Tomorrow. He typed back: "I'll be there." Elaine: "Bring the evidence. All of it. And bring Ortega. We need him." Damon: "He's at the safe house. Leo is watching him."

The courtroom was silent after Leo left. Judge Harrison shuffled through the papers on his bench. His gray eyes moved slowly, deliberately, as if he was trying to process everything he had just heard. Elaine stood at the plaintiff's table. Her posture was calm. Her face was composed. But Damon could see the tension in her shoulders. The tightness in her jaw. The defense lawyer, a thin man with a sharp nose and cold eyes, whispered to Alistair. The old man's face was pale. His hands were trembling. He had not expected Leo to testify. Had not expected the flash drive. Had not expected the truth to come out in open court. Judge Harrison looked up. "The court will hear the next witness." Elaine nodded. "The plaintiff calls Javier Ortega." The doors at the back of the courtroom opened. Ortega walked in. He was smaller than Damon remembered. Thinner. His face was still bruised from the beating Cassian had given him. His left eye was swollen. His lip was split. But he walked

The warehouse was packed. Five hundred men. Maybe more. Standing room only. The air was thick with sweat and anticipation and the smell of blood. The platform had been reinforced. New plywood. New ropes. New lights. Bright. Harsh. Unforgiving. Frank stood in the center, raising his hands for silence. "The tournament final," Frank announced. "Damon Corso versus Marcus." The crowd erupted. Chanting. Screaming. Pounding their fists against the walls. Damon climbed onto the platform. His body was tight. His ribs ached. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh white tape. He wore black fighting shorts and no shirt. The bruises on his torso were visible. Purple. Yellow. Green. A map of pain. Across the platform, Marcus climbed up. The bald man was built like a tank. Wide shoulders. Thick neck. Arms like tree trunks. His nose had been broken so many times it was almost flat against his face. His eyes were cold. Empty. Unreadable. Fifteen years in the pit. Undefeated. Four men dead. Marcus