Night had draped the city in a shroud of darkness. The clock on Ganjo's living room wall was a stark reminder of how little time he had left. It was 9 PM. The only light in his expansive loft was coming from the city outside and the flickering television screen. The loft, hidden within the warehouse, was unlike the remainder of the gritty building that housed his gym and the dark court arena.

  Ganjo stood in the dimly lit space and nursed a beer. The melodic strains of power ballads played loudly, filling the silence. He watched the cityscape sprawling beneath him, a tapestry of twinkling lights and shadowy figures. As he let the scenery take his mind, the sight of two bulky SUVs pulling up to the warehouse entrance distracted him.

  From his vantage point, Ganjo had a clear view of the traffic flowing in and out of his domain. Most evenings, the scene was a chaotic ballet of battered sedans and rusty pickup trucks, the lifeblood of his underground empire. But these SUVs, these were a breed apart, the kind that usually graced his establishment only during the frenzied weekends of the dark court.

  A woman emerged from the leading SUV. Her silhouette contrasted against the headlights. Even from this distance, Ganjo recognized the toned physique, the short, no-nonsense haircut, the aura of power that clung to her like a second skin. It was Veronica Guzman, the woman who had thrown his world into chaos.

  A wave of annoyance washed over Ganjo. He hadn't expected her to show up unannounced. Her presence here, so soon, was a violation, a power play that set his teeth on edge.

  Ganjo snatched the landline receiver, its plastic cold against his palm. He punched in the numbers with a practiced jab of his index finger, the rotary dial clicking with each rotation.

  The line crackled to life, and Ayuda's voice filled the earpiece.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "We got company," Ganjo said, his eyes flicking towards the approaching SUVs.

  "Bring the lady to the admin booth."

  ...

  In the softly lit office booth, Ganjo stood pensively. His view swept across the expanse of the fight arena below. From his vantage point, he could see just about everything — the ebb and flow of the crowd, the tense faces of the fighters, the subtle signals exchanged between the bookkeepers and their enforcers. He was the only person in the booth, surrounded by the hum of technology and the faint echoes of the arena's chaos.

  A bank of six large monitors dominated the back wall, their blank screens casting an eerie white glow across the room. Two workstations, each with a desk and chair, were positioned on either side of the room. One workstation had a large poster on the wall behind it, depicting a muscular, shirtless man. A long desk with a chair sat in the foreground, facing the monitors, serving as the primary control station. Circular devices, possibly lights or cameras, were mounted on the ceiling, their unblinking eyes adding to the booth's aura of surveillance. The room was painted in shades of gray, the dark furniture blending seamlessly into the shadows.

  A sharp knock on the entrance door shattered the silence.

  "Come in," Ganjo said, his voice cutting through the booth's stillness.

  Ayuda stepped in, followed by Veronica Guzman. Her presence filled the room, as she analyzed the monitors, workstations, and finally Ganjo.

  Ganjo greeted her, nodding his head in acknowledgment.

  "Ms. Guzman.”

  He then kindly excused Ayuda.

  “Thank you for bringing her to me. You can leave us now."

  Ayuda retreated from the booth, closing the door behind him.

  "This is quite an unexpected visit," Ganjo said, his eyes fixed on Veronica. "I thought I had 72 hours. It hasn't even been 48 yet."

  Veronica smiled.

  "I like to keep my workers on their toes."

  Veronica's smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

  "Does that extra day make all the difference to your decision?"

  Ganjo's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening. Patience was not on his side tonight.

  "It's about principle."

  Veronica chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down Ganjo's spine. She stepped closer, her movements fluid and graceful, but maintained a respectable distance. Ganjo remained still, his eyes fixed on her.

  Veronica's demeanor shifted, her smile fading as she met Ganjo's face.

  "By now, you should have heard of the closing of the Institute."

  Ganjo remained silent, his expression unreadable.

  Veronica continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

  "My sources have informed me that Hadic and the factions assisting him are beginning an offensive."

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  Ganjo countered.

  "If you have sources telling you this, then why not use them instead of me?"

  Veronica walked past Ganjo and towards the large windows of the booth that oversaw the fighting arena. The arena was a relic of a bygone era, a concrete behemoth that had seen countless battles and bloodshed. The boxing ring at its center was a scarred stage, its ropes slack and its mat worn thin by the relentless pounding of fists and feet. The tiered seating that surrounded the ring was a patchwork of broken benches and cracked concrete, a testament to the arena's long and tumultuous history.

  The space showed plenty of decay, its walls and floors scarred by the passage of time and the countless battles that had raged within its confines. The ceiling was a network of exposed beams and metalwork, casting long shadows that danced across the arena floor. Dust motes swirled in the faint light that filtered through the cracks and crevices, creating an ethereal haze that spoke of neglect and forgotten glory.

  Veronica sighed, a hint of impatience creeping in.

  "Stop being a stubborn child, Ganjo. This is greater than both of us."

  She paused, her sight focused on the arena below.

  "None of my sources see this spectacle, Ganjo. They have no connection to the reality of many people's lives, especially in Synoro."

  Ganjo shook his head, his expression hardening.

  "And that’s why you want me? Because you think I do?"

  It was difficult for him not to show his disdain for her tactics.

  "You make your cause seem honorable, but I have a hard time believing it when you're blackmailing me into it."

  Veronica caught the faint hint of alcohol coming from Ganjo.

  “You’ve been drinking, I see.”

  Annoyed, Ganjo demanded.

  “Don’t change the conversation.”

  Veronica's smirk widened. She observed, her voice was a silken purr that cut through the tension.

  “You’ve put yourself in this situation, Ganjo.”

  Ganjo's eyes narrowed, an unease crossed his face.

  "Alberto Pointe, does that ring a bell?" Veronica asked with a cynical tone.

  "I don't know what you're talking about,” Ganjo said, nervously.

  Veronica countered.

  "Oh, but I think you do."

  Ganjo's eyes widened, a wave of panic washing over him. Alberto Pointe, the ghost floor, the sensory deprivation tanks, the victims... the memories flooded back, a torrent of guilt and shame.

  Veronica continued.

  "You betrayed Oliver, because you were upset with the outcome of that operation."

  Ganjo remained silent, his face pale, his body trembling.

  Veronica continued.

  "Therefore, this was all your doing. I’m simply using it as a motivator."

  Veronica stepped closer, her face inches from Ganjo's.

  "I said 72 hours, but I’m not really in the mood to wait. I can’t afford to wait.”

  The muscle’s of Veronica’s face tightened.

  "So what’s it gonna be?"

  Ganjo moved closer to the window, drawn by the roar of the crowd below. The fight arena was a maelstrom of noise and movement. The two fighters circled each other in the ring, their bodies glistening with sweat under the harsh lights. One was a hulking brute of a man, his muscles rippling with every move. The other was smaller, but quicker, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal.

  Ganjo watched as the larger fighter lunged, his fist connecting with the smaller man's jaw. The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing through the arena. Ganjo knew that the enthusiasm for the trial wasn't because of what was at stake. It was most likely just another dispute over debts, the kind that played out daily in the city's underbelly. The only ones who truly cared about the outcome were the poor souls being represented by those fighters, their lives hanging in the balance.

  But Ganjo knew what really drove the people wild – the bets. For many in Bonao, and indeed half the continent, betting was their daytime job. They refused to work a real job, preferring to gamble their lives away on the underground trials. Synoro had the continent's largest volume of employment, but that was only because its infinite resources made it an exploitative center. The jobs were everywhere, but they were brutal and paid a pittance. Instead, many chose to bet their lives, hoping for a miracle that would lift them out of their poverty.

  Another pitiful truth, Ganjo thought. For how glorious the justice system was, many couldn't afford a legitimate trial. So, the Dasa Vech stepped in to fill the void, offering a twisted form of justice that often left the downtrodden even worse off than before. The Dasa Vech amassed a fortune from these trials. It helped keep the poor in their place, and provided enough order for the ghettos to function. Many couldn't afford these trials either, but the bookkeepers put it on their tabs. If they couldn't pay, well, they could pay in other ways. Usually in the form of a firstborn.

  Ganjo closed his eyes, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. He never had a good option. They were all bad.

  He opened his eyes and turned to Veronica.

  "Want to know what's at stake for this fight?" he asked.

  As he spoke, one of the fighters slammed the other to the ground with a sickening thud. The crowd roared its approval, their bloodlust reaching a fever pitch.

  "It's most likely debt," Veronica said, as she looked at the fighters below.

  "Indeed," Ganjo said, nodding slowly. "Though it's not just debt, Veronica. It's slavery."

  A flicker of confusion crossed Veronica’s face.

  "Slavery?"

  "Most of them are repeat offenders," Ganjo explained, his voice laced with a bitter irony. "In this world, debts are never truly paid off."

  He paused, as his sight drifted towards the cityscape beyond the arena windows.

  "I spent my whole life doing the dirtiest of jobs for Oliver. I never objected, never protested. Except for Alberto Pointe."

  Ganjo turned back to Veronica, his eyes filled with a quiet rage.

  "I had one request, and Oliver couldn't even grant me that. It was always a numbers game for him. Numbers and deals. So, I decided to make my own deal when the time came."

  He slammed his fist against the window, the glass rattling ominously.

  "But because I'm just some guy, my deal had consequences. A consequence that will never be paid."

  "That's where you're wrong," Veronica said, her voice firm but laced with a hint of sympathy. "This time, you'll be working for a noble cause."

  Ganjo interrupted.

  "Oliver had a noble cause. But let’s not get caught up in labels.”

  The moment of truth had come for Ganjo. He had taken many risks in his life, but this could be his last.

  “I’ll agree to help you, but on my conditions."

  Veronica's eyes widened in surprise.

  "Go on.”