The black car carried Leo through the decaying arteries of Eastwood, past the skeletal factories and the empty lots, toward the warehouse at Port Ashwick where Malcolm Drake was waiting. Riven sat beside him in the back seat, uncharacteristically silent, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his knee. The driver was the same silent man who had picked Leo up before his first fight, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses despite the overcast sky.
"You need to be careful what you say in there," Riven said finally, his voice low enough that the driver might not hear. "Drake's not just asking questions because he's curious. Someone told him about your meeting with the journalist. Someone's been watching you."
"I know. They left a photograph on my wall."
Riven's head snapped toward him. "They've been inside your apartment? Leo, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I don't know who to trust." Leo turned to face his old friend, searching his expression for any sign of deception. "You brought me into this, Riv. You said it was a way to make money. You didn't tell me it was a machine designed to chew people up and spit them out. You didn't tell me about Tomas Garrett, or the fixed fights, or the cameras that record every conversation. You didn't tell me that the people who run the Coliseum are willing to kill anyone who threatens their operation."
Riven's face went pale. "I didn't know about the killings. I swear to you, Leo. I knew the fights were fixed sometimes—everyone knows that. But I didn't know they were murdering fighters. I thought Iron Hammer's death was an accident. I thought Garrett's death was an accident. That's what everyone thought."
"Then you've been lying to yourself as much as you've been lying to me."
The accusation hung in the air between them. Riven looked away, his jaw tight, and for the rest of the drive he said nothing.
The warehouse loomed out of the grey afternoon like a fortress, its rusted steel walls blotting out the sky. The guards at the entrance recognized the car and waved it through, and Leo found himself walking through the familiar corridors toward Drake's office, a room he had never entered but had heard about in whispers from the other fighters. It was said to be soundproofed. It was said to have no windows. It was said to be the last place some people ever saw.
Malcolm Drake's office was not what Leo expected. It was small and spartan, almost monastic in its simplicity: a metal desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a single lamp that cast a harsh white circle of light on the concrete floor. The walls were bare except for a single framed document—some kind of business license, Leo guessed, though he could not read the text from the doorway. There were no photographs, no personal effects, nothing that revealed anything about the man who occupied this space.
Drake himself was seated behind the desk, his silver hair immaculate, his grey suit perfectly pressed. His expression was calm, almost pleasant, but his eyes were the eyes of a predator: watchful, patient, utterly without warmth.
"Mr. Castor. Please, sit." Drake gestured to the chair opposite him. "Riven, wait outside."
Riven hesitated, his eyes flicking to Leo, and for a moment Leo thought his old friend might object. But the habit of obedience was too deeply ingrained. Riven nodded and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded, to Leo's ears, like the closing of a cell.
"I understand you had lunch today with a journalist named Mira Calder," Drake said, his tone conversational. "At the Cafe Meridian. She's been a thorn in the side of certain business interests in the Gilded Quarter for quite some time. I'm curious what you discussed."
Leo thought about the cover story Agent Voss had suggested. A profile piece. A calculated career move. He kept his voice steady. "She's writing an article about underground fighting circuits. She wanted an interview with an active fighter. I thought it might raise my profile with the patrons."
"Raise your profile." Drake repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them. "An interesting strategy. Most of our fighters prefer to remain anonymous. They understand that publicity of any kind is a risk to the organization. But you, apparently, have a different perspective."
"I'm new to this world. I'm still learning the rules."
"The rules." Drake leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Let me explain something to you, Mr. Castor. The Iron Coliseum has operated for nearly a decade without significant interference from law enforcement or the media. This is not an accident. We have cultivated relationships with people in positions of power—people who understand that what we provide is a valuable service to individuals whose entertainment options are, shall we say, limited by their social status. In return for their protection, we maintain absolute discretion. Do you understand what absolute discretion means?"
"It means no interviews."
"It means no interviews. No conversations with journalists. No meetings with anyone outside the organization without prior approval. And certainly no discussions about the deaths of fighters who were unfortunate enough to suffer accidents in the cage." Drake's voice had not changed in tone, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "I am aware that you've been talking to Dr. Elena West as well. She has been a useful asset to us over the years, patching up our fighters, but she has also been asking questions that are better left unasked. I hope you have not been indulging her curiosity."
Leo's heart was hammering against his ribs, but he kept his face still. "Dr. West treated my injuries after my fights. That's all."
"Is it? Because we have reason to believe that Dr. West has been collecting evidence. Medical records. Photographs. Autopsy reports. She seems to think that the Iron Coliseum is responsible for the deaths of certain fighters, and she seems to be looking for someone to help her prove it." Drake leaned forward, his eyes boring into Leo's. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"No."
"No." Drake held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I want to believe you, Mr. Castor. You have potential. Cordelia Vance has taken a personal interest in your career, and when Cordelia Vance takes an interest, good things tend to happen. But potential can be squandered. Careers can be cut short. And fighters who ask too many questions have a tendency to suffer unfortunate accidents of their own."
The threat hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. Leo felt the panic button in his pocket, but he knew that pressing it here, in the heart of the Coliseum's territory, would be a death sentence. Agent Voss's tactical team would never reach him in time.
"I'm not asking questions," Leo said. "I'm just trying to fight and get paid."
"Good. Keep it that way." Drake opened a drawer and pulled out a tablet, sliding it across the desk. "Your fight against the Serpent is in four days. The odds are currently in your favor, largely because of your patron's endorsement. But the Serpent is a dangerous opponent, and if you lose, your patron's enthusiasm may wane. I recommend you focus on your training and leave the investigative work to people who are better equipped to handle the consequences."
Leo picked up the tablet. It displayed his opponent's profile—the same gaunt face and hollow eyes he had seen before—along with a detailed breakdown of his fighting style and a schedule of training sessions leading up to the match.
"One more thing," Drake said, as Leo stood to leave. "The journalist, Mira Calder. If she contacts you again, you will inform me immediately. If she publishes anything about the Coliseum, there will be consequences. Not just for her, but for anyone who assisted her. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear."
Leo walked out of the office, his legs unsteady, his palms slick with sweat. Riven was waiting in the corridor, his expression a mixture of relief and concern.
"What did he ask you?"
"The same thing you asked me. Whether I know anything about Iron Hammer's death." Leo kept walking, his voice low. "I told him I didn't. But he knows about Dr. West. He knows about Mira Calder. He knows everything, Riv. How does he know everything?"
"Because the cameras aren't just in the cage. They're everywhere." Riven grabbed Leo's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Listen to me. Whatever you're involved in—whatever Dr. West is planning—you need to walk away from it. Right now. I've seen what happens to people who try to take down the Coliseum. They disappear. And no one ever finds the bodies."
"Like Tomas Garrett. Like Iron Hammer."
"Yes, like them." Riven's grip tightened, his knuckles white. "I brought you into this because I wanted to help you. Because I owed you. But if you keep going down this path, you're going to get us both killed. Please, Leo. Just fight, collect your money, and get out while you still can."
"I can't do that, Riv. Not anymore."
"Why not?"
Leo thought about the black drive, now in Mira Calder's possession. He thought about Dr. West's filing cabinet, empty and rusting in some landfill. He thought about Colin Knox, running for the border with nothing but a backpack and a prayer. And he thought about his mother, who was alive because of the Coliseum's money, and who would never forgive him if she knew what he had done to earn it.
"Because if I walk away, nothing changes. The machine keeps running. More fighters die. More families get settlement checks and NDAs and never learn the truth about what happened to their sons and fathers and brothers." Leo pulled his arm free. "I'm not a hero, Riv. I'm just a man who got lucky enough to see behind the curtain. And now that I've seen it, I can't unsee it."
He walked away before Riven could respond, his footsteps echoing in the concrete corridor. Outside, the grey afternoon had darkened into evening, and a cold rain was beginning to fall, streaking the windows of the waiting car like tears.
Dr. West had relocated to a motel on the outskirts of Eastwood, a place called the Riverview Inn that had not had a view of the river in decades. The sign out front was missing half its letters, and the parking lot was cracked and weed-choked, but the rooms were clean and the clerk asked no questions. It was the kind of place where people went when they did not want to be found.
Leo knocked on the door of Room 12, and Dr. West opened it a crack, her eyes scanning the parking lot behind him before she let him in. The room was cramped, filled with the detritus of a hasty relocation: a suitcase on the bed, a laptop on the desk, a portable printer that was spewing out pages of legal documents.
"Selene Harwood filed the lawsuit this afternoon," Dr. West said, her voice tight with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. "Wrongful death, on behalf of Tomas Garrett's family. The complaint names Aegis Entertainment, Malcolm Drake, and several shell companies as defendants. It requests a preservation order for all video and audio recordings related to Garrett's death, as well as Iron Hammer's."
"Drake knows," Leo said. "He knows about you, about the investigation, about everything. He called me into his office and threatened me."
Dr. West's expression did not change. "I expected that. The lawsuit will make us targets. But it will also force the Coliseum to respond in court, and once they do, they'll be subject to discovery. They'll have to produce the footage. They'll have to answer questions under oath. They'll have to explain why fighters keep dying in their cage."
"Unless they destroy the evidence first."
"They won't. Selene got the preservation order signed by a federal judge this afternoon. If the Coliseum destroys any recordings now, they'll be in contempt of court, and the judge can issue sanctions. It's not a guarantee, but it's a safeguard."
Leo sat down on the edge of the bed, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. "What about the criminal case? Agent Voss said he needs the recordings to build an indictment."
"Voss has the recordings now. Mira delivered them this morning. He's analyzing the audio, trying to identify the voice that gave the order to drug Iron Hammer. If he can make a positive identification, he can get an arrest warrant." Dr. West paused, her expression shifting. "There's something else. Selene's lawsuit has already attracted attention. A state official contacted her office this afternoon. Someone high up in the Attorney General's office."
Leo looked up, a chill running down his spine. "Who?"
"A man named Victor Sterling. He's the State Attorney General of the Federal Republic of Amerith. And he's filed a motion to intervene in the lawsuit."
"Intervene? What does that mean?"
"It means he wants to join the case. But not on our side." Dr. West's voice was grim. "Sterling is arguing that the state has a compelling interest in protecting voluntary recreational sports from frivolous litigation. He's trying to get the case dismissed before discovery even begins. And he's arguing it as the representative of the state itself."
Leo stared at her, the implications crashing over him. The State Attorney General. The highest law enforcement officer in the Federal Republic. And he was not trying to prosecute the Coliseum—he was trying to protect it.
"Drake said they had cultivated relationships with people in positions of power," Leo said slowly. "I thought he meant local officials. Cops. Judges. I didn't think he meant the Attorney General."
"Victor Sterling is one of the most powerful men in the country. If he's protecting the Coliseum, it means the Coliseum's owners have influence at the highest levels of government." Dr. West sat down beside him, her hands trembling slightly. "This is bigger than we thought, Leo. Much bigger. And we're going to need more than a few audio recordings to bring it down."
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