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"You smell different."
The guard's hand clamped on my wrist before I reached the cell door. Not the usual iron-mask. This one had a scar splitting his lip.
"Different how?" I asked.
"Less scared." He leaned in. "You planning something?"
"Yeah. Breakfast."
He shoved me forward. "Funny girl. Let's see if you're still cracking jokes after Garron opens you up."
Garron. Loop three, he'd taken my kidney. Loop five, I'd avoided his opening lunge and he'd broken my neck against the wall instead. This time, I had a plan.
"Move it," Scarface said.
The corridor stank like always—rust, piss, old blood baked into stone. But I wasn't counting steps anymore. I was counting faces. Every guard. Every torch bracket. Every door that didn't match the others.
Six loops, and I'd finally found it last night. The record room. One locked door, two floors up, past the guard station nobody watched after the third bell.
The ledger inside had one buyer mark: V.
Vex. Had to be. Underground broker, ran half of Ashgate's black market, sold secrets like bread. If he was buying fight records, he knew something.
And if he knew something, I could make him talk.
"Hold up." Another guard stepped out ahead, younger, jittery hands. "Commander wants a word."
My pulse spiked. "Which commander?"
"The one paying your bills, sweetheart. Move."
Scarface grunted. "She's due in the Pit in twenty."
"Then she better walk fast."
They flanked me, one on each side, and steered me left instead of right. Away from the arena. Up.
My chest tightened. In six loops, nobody had ever pulled me out of the walk-in. The schedule was iron. Cell to Pit. Fight. Die. Reset.
This was new.
We climbed two flights, past the record room I'd broken into, past the guard quarters, into a section with actual carpet. Thin, rotting carpet, but still. The walls up here had sconces instead of torches.
"Inside," Jittery-hands said, shoving open a door.
The room was small. A desk. Two chairs. A window with bars so thick you could barely see the Ashgate skyline outside.
And standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, was Commander Halrik Valen.
I stopped breathing.
Six loops. Six deaths. And I'd never seen him. Not once.
He turned. Same sharp jaw. Same cold eyes. Same insignia on his collar I used to wear before he ripped it off me.
"Kira Dane," he said. "Sit."
"I'm good."
"I insist." He gestured to the chair.
I didn't move. "I've got a fight in fifteen minutes."
"You've got as long as I say you do." He walked to the desk, poured something amber into a glass. "The Pit runs on my coin. You run on my mercy."
My hands curled into fists. "Mercy. That what you call this?"
"I call it employment." He took a sip, eyes on me the whole time. "You're doing well down there. Three wins yesterday alone."
Yesterday.
He'd been watching.
Loop four, I'd taken down two fighters back-to-back before the third one caved my skull in. That was yesterday for him. For me, it was three resets ago.
"Glad you enjoyed the show," I said.
"I did." He set the glass down. "In fact, I'm considering moving you up. Better opponents. Better odds. The crowds love an underdog."
"I'm not a dog."
"No." He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "You're a soldier. Or you were. Before you forgot your place."
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
"Tell me, Kira—do you regret it? Refusing the command? Turning on your brothers?"
"I didn't turn on anyone."
"You refused a direct order."
"I refused to commit treason."
"Treason." He laughed, low and sharp. "You still think you were the hero. That's almost charming."
I took a step forward. Scarface's hand landed on my shoulder, iron grip, but I didn't care.
"You framed me," I said. "You burned my name. You sold me to this pit."
"I saved your life." He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "You should've hanged. I got you a second chance."
"A second chance? I've died six times down there!"
The room went silent.
Halrik's smile faded. He tilted his head. "What did you say?"
Shit.
I swallowed hard. "I mean—people die. Every day."
"No." He stepped closer. "You said *you* died. Six times."
"Figure of speech."
"You don't use figures of speech, Dane. You use counts. Numbers. You always did." His eyes narrowed. "What's happening to you down there?"
I said nothing.
He watched me. Five seconds. Ten.
Then he turned back to the window. "Get her out. She fights in ten."
Scarface yanked me toward the door.
"Kira."
I stopped. Looked back.
Halrik's reflection stared at me through the glass. "Win today. I want to see what else you remember."
---
The crowd was already screaming when they shoved me into the Pit.
Sand under my boots. Iron walls on all sides. Hundreds of faces in the stands, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, waving coins and fists.
And there, in the front row of the upper gallery, right where the torchlight hit clean—
Halrik.
He sat alone. No guards. No entourage. Just him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
Watching.
The gate across from me cranked open. Garron stepped out, bare-chested, double blades in his hands. Crowd went wild.
He grinned at me. "Ready to beg, little guard?"
"Not today."
He charged.
I sidestepped—loop three, I'd learned he always opened high left—and drove my elbow into his ribs as he passed. He grunted, stumbled, swung wild. I ducked under, swept his ankle, and he went down hard.
The crowd roared.
I didn't wait. I grabbed one of his blades from the sand and pressed it to his throat.
"Yield," I said.
He spat blood at me. "Go to hell."
I looked up.
Halrik was standing now. Hands on the railing. Eyes locked on mine.
He smiled.
And mouthed two words.
"Again, Kira."