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He’d chosen the booth in the back corner, the one farthest from the door and closest to the bathrooms. The overhead light above it flickered slightly, giving everything a faint strobe effect.

He didn’t wave when I walked in. Didn’t nod, didn’t smile.

He just watched me approach, eyes tracking my progress like a predator watching something wander into his kill zone. He was alone in the booth, one hand curled around a mug of coffee, the other resting flat on the table next to a laminated menu he clearly wasn’t reading.

I stopped at the edge of the booth, took in the setup, and realized he’d left the only open seat facing the wall. If I sat, my back would be to the door, to the counter, to the whole damn diner.

That position never sat right with me on a good day. It really didn’t sit right when the guy across from me was someone I was already sure I couldn’t trust.

I slid in anyway, ribs twinging as I moved. I could feel the entrance at my back like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

Maurice’s mouth curled into a slow smile. “A lot of guys lose their nerve before my second cup of coffee,” he said. “They talk big at the gym, then find a reason not to show. I told myself, Post isn’t like that. He’ll come. He’s a serious man.”

It took everything I had not to roll my eyes.

Instead, I reached for the menu just to have something in my hands. “So,” I said. “Tell me about your setup.”

A waitress appeared then, like she’d been waiting for that cue. “Evening,” she said. “You need a minute, or you know what you want?”

“Coffee,” I said. “Black.”

“You want anything to eat?” she asked.

I shook my head. My stomach was in a knot tight enough to strangle a python.

She refilled Maurice’s mug and left us to it.

Maurice waited until she was out of earshot. Then he leaned back against the cracked vinyl, draping one arm along the back of the booth like we were just two guys catching up after a movie.

“You ever hear of regional circuits?” he asked.

“Depends what we’re talking about,” I said.

“Not the nice ones,” he clarified, amused. “Not the league stuff with announcers and EMTs ringside with forms to sign in triplicate. I mean the fights that happen when you drive past the official gyms. Places where people go to watch with real hunger in their eyes.”

I kept my face neutral. “I’ve heard rumors.”

His smile deepened. “Of course you have.”

He laid it out then in smooth, conversational strokes, like he was explaining his fantasy football league.

There were locations—warehouses, barns, back rooms of closed-down businesses—rotating so authorities would never catch whiff of a spot. There were “sponsors,” which sounded a hell of a lot like guys with too much money and not enough hobbies. There were regular fight nights, invite-only, names passed by word of mouth and encrypted group chats.

Money on the table. Cash, mostly. Some under-the-table transfers if you knew who to ask.

“Payouts are good,” Maurice said, watching me over the rim of his mug. “You show, you fight, you walk out with more than your monthly salary. You put on a show, you walk out with enough to make a dent in whatever problems are keeping you up at night.”

“No sanctioning?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We have our own code. You tap, it’s over. Ref stops a fight if someone’s out on their feet. We don’t like casualties. They attract attention.”

“Seems to me, that’s not much different than what’s done at Cappy’s. Why all the big bets?”

“Like I said, they come for the show,” Maurice said. It was the first sound of agitation in his voice.

“Like WWE?”

“Catch a clue, Post. Not like WWE. Otherwise you wouldn’t get such good payouts.”