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I huff out a laugh.

“So he can kill people, but I can’t kill him?” I glance back at Caleb. “What if he kills me?”

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose as if I’m giving him a migraine.

“Just beat the shit out of him until he’s weak, take the money, then go home.” He says flatly.

“I don’t care about the goddamn money.”

“Well, I do,” he snaps.

I roll my eyes and head for the cage. The door opens, and the moment I step inside, my body lights up, buzzing under my skin as the crowd noise wraps around me.

The noise isn’t even loud. This isn’t that kind of place. The crowd here is small, private, expensive. The kind of audience that likes their violence curated. But I can still feel them. Every hungry stare, every pulse of anticipation, every sick little thrill curling through the air as they wait to watch two men tear each other apart.

My eyes drift upwards to the tinted glass above. That’s where the elites sit, tucked safely behind their dark windows, sipping wine and expensive liquor as girls lounge on their laps and men place bets on who bleeds first, who breaks first, who dies prettiest.

Classy.

I look back at the man across from me.

Big bastard. Shaved head. Broad through the shoulders. The kind of face that looks like it was built to headbutt walls.

“What’s your real name?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he swings at me, but I dodge easily and step back. He laughs as I retreat, like he thinks I’m scared.

“Tell me your name,” I say again, this time with a smile. “Come on, you bald bastard. I need to know who I’m killing.”

“I’m Jude,” he snaps, voice rough, charging again. “Now fight me, you fucker.”

“Nice to meet you, Jude,” I say, my grin stretching wider as I move. “Time to meet your maker.”

And I actually killed him.

Because honestly, what the fuck do you think this place is for? You don’t step into a cage like this unless you’ve already made peace with dying.

And if they really thought I’d spare him just because someone important might be upset, they clearly haven’t been paying attention.

Nobody tells me what to fucking do.

❧

I walk up the stairs as quietly as I can, one step at a time, like the house might decide not to notice me if I move carefully enough. I say a quick, pointless prayer to the stars that both my parents are asleep, because the last thing I can survive right now is an interrogation. I’m exhausted, sore in places I don’t want to count, and hanging on to my patience by whatever miserable thread is left.

I’m just about to ease my door open, fingers tightening around the handle as I try to slip inside without a sound, when my mother calls my name.

“Maksim.”

I freeze instantly, my eyes closing in quiet defeat as I let out a breath. Of course. Of course she’s awake. It’s two in the morning; why the hell wouldn’t she be? It’s as if she has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to me, like she always knows when I’m trying to avoid her.

I let go of the handle and turn toward her. She’s already walking down the hall, and there’s anger in her face at first, bright and fully deserved. Then she gets close enough to really look at me, and it changes. The anger doesn’t disappear, but it cracks open under the weight of something softer and heavier. Concern floods her expression so fast it makes my heart ache.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks in Thai, her hands coming up to cup my face, turning it slightly as she looks me over.

“Mom, I’m fine,” I answer in Thai, already irritated because her voice is so soft it feels like it’s peeling my skin off.

I can deal with yelling. Anger is easy. Anger asks nothing from me except that I throw some of it back. But concern—real concern, the kind that trembles under the surface no matter how calm she sounds goes straight for the throat.