I don't attend the fight.
That's the first thing they expect me to do.
Instead, I go to work.
Routine is camouflage.
The notification arrives at 14:17.
Not on my phone.
On the public transit board above the depot entrance—an advertising panel that flickers once before returning to schedule. For less than a second, a private tag overlays the route map.
PG-01 // RESULT POSTED
They want me to see it.
They want confirmation.
I finish my shift, walk three blocks, and enter a café that advertises nothing except silence. The tables are clean. The staff don't ask names. Data traffic here is filtered and old-fashioned.
I sit. I order tea. I wait.
A man takes the opposite seat without asking.
Not the same one from the underpass. Older. Thicker hands. He smells faintly of antiseptic and iron.
He slides a receipt across the table.
I turn it over.
PROVING GROUND — NODE K-7MATCH TYPE: Disparity TestFIGHTERS:• Bhairav Singh• Asset ID: K-7-19
DURATION: 46 secondsOUTCOME: DECISIVE
Below it, a biometric spike graph.
One peak.
Clean.
"He didn't hold back," the man says.
"He didn't need to," I reply.
The man watches my face carefully.
"He broke the opponent's shoulder, two ribs, and the concrete anchor bolt beneath them."
That's excessive for a test.
"Why?" I ask.
"He was instructed to end it fast."
"By who?"
The man smiles thinly. "By consensus."
I sip my tea.
They wanted spectacle.
They didn't get it.
Bhairav doesn't perform. He concludes.
"Any Flow?" I ask.
"No," the man answers. "Pure output."
That tells me more than he realizes.
I stand to leave.
"You'll want to see the footage," he says.
"No," I reply.
He pauses. That wasn't expected.
"You're not curious?"
"I trust him," I say. "And I know what you're trying to map."
He studies me for a long moment.
"Belief," he says slowly. "That's the variable you think we can't measure."
"You can measure it," I answer. "You just can't own it."
I leave before he can respond.
Outside, the city moves like nothing happened.
That's the lie Proving Grounds sell—violence without witnesses is control.
Bhairav calls me that night.
Not immediately after the match.
Not when the adrenaline fades.
When the damage sets in.
"I passed," he says.
"I know," I reply.
A pause.
"They're adjusting the bracket," he continues. "Harder opponents."
"Good," I say. "It means they're cautious."
He exhales. "You're calm."
"I'm precise," I answer.
He doesn't laugh this time.
"They asked about you," he says.
"Of course they did."
"They want to know why you didn't show."
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the metal card on the table.
"Tell them," I say, "I don't attend rituals."
Silence.
Then Bhairav speaks, quieter now.
"I didn't enjoy it," he says. "That worries them."
"That's fine," I reply. "Enjoyment is compliance."
After the call ends, I open my laptop.
Not to search.
To write.
I start mapping nodes, schedules, consensus windows. Who attends which matches. Who authorizes escalation. Patterns don't lie—systems do.
They think the Proving Ground tested Bhairav.
It didn't.
It exposed their rhythm
Somewhere beneath the city, a fighter is carried away on a stretcher.
I don't see it.
I don't need to.
Because the result is already clear.
The tournament has begun.
And for the first time, it's reacting to me.