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For one stupid second, I wait for something human to move across his face.

Nothing does.

Of course.

“Welcome,” Bryant calls, lifting both arms.

The crowd roars.

The guards shove us into a holding area made from overturned benches and metal barricades at the edge of the open court. The other prisoners are already there, faces gray, eyes hollow. One man mutters a prayer under his breath. The woman beside him shakes so hard her teeth click together. A teenager has a bloody handprint on his shirt and keeps staring at it like it belongs to someone else.

Poppy presses against my side. I wrap one arm around her shoulders and pull her close as Bryant strolls across the open space, relishing the attention. Russ stays a few steps behind him, jaw tight, eyes flicking away whenever mine catch his.

Coward.

“You know the rules,” Bryant says. “A life for a life. Win your fight, earn your freedom.”

The crowd cheers again.

He points to a man from our cage, the one with the split lip and one arm wrapped around his ribs. “You first.”

The man jerks back. “No. Please. I can’t.”

Two guards grab him anyway. His shoes skid over tile as they drag him into the center. He’s crying before they let him go, hands lifted, blood crusted under his nose. Across from him, one of Bryant’s people steps forward. Big. Bald. Shirtless despite the cold. His chest is smeared with old blood, and his stomach hangs over the waistband of his jeans. He rolls his shoulders, grinning at the crowd with red stuck between his teeth.

The crowd chants his name.

Doyle. Doyle. Doyle.

The prisoner looks around for mercy.

There is none.

Bryant drops one hand, and the fight starts.

It isn’t a fight for long.

The prisoner swings first, wild and desperate. Doyle takes the hit to the cheek, laughs, then drives a fist into the man’s ribs. The crack is loud enough to reach us over the crowd. The prisoner folds with a wet gasp, spit and blood spilling from his mouth. Doyle grabs him by the hair and slams him face-first into the tile.

Poppy flinches.

I tighten my arm around her. “Don’t watch.”

“I can’t stop,” she whispers back.

God. I know.

What does that say about us?

Doyle hauls the man up again. The prisoner’s legs barely work. Blood pours from his nose, dripping onto his shirt in bright, steady drops. His split lip has torn wider, exposing the pink shine of his gums.

“Please,” the man sobs.

Doyle opens his mouth and bites into his throat.

Blood erupts.

It sprays across Doyle’s face, across the tile, across the front row of the crowd. The prisoner’s body convulses, hands slapping weakly at Doyle’s shoulders as his artery pumps red in violent bursts. The sound is worse than the sight. A wet, choking gurgle. A body trying to breathe around its own ending.