The fight ended fast.
Too fast for the crowd that had been holding its breath, waiting for blood or spectacle. One clean strike. A misstep. A body hitting the mat with a sound that traveled through the cage and into my chest.
The referee stepped in immediately. The crowd groaned, half disappointed, half satisfied.
Efficiency, Kade had called it.
I watched as the winner stepped back, chest rising hard, eyes unfocused. He looked less triumphant than empty. Like he had given something away and was still figuring out what it cost.
"You miss it," Kade said quietly.
It was not a question.
I did not look at him. "I recognize it."
"That is not denial."
I turned then. "You did not bring me here to talk about my feelings."
"No," he agreed. "I brought you here to observe before you decide."
He gestured for me to follow him, already moving away. People parted as he passed, not with fear, but with practiced awareness. This was his space. They knew it.
We walked along a corridor that circled the arena, the sound fading behind thick walls. My pulse stayed high, like my body had mistaken proximity for permission.
"You run an illegal fight ring," I said.
"I run a private league," he corrected. "Illegal implies chaos. This is regulated."
By you, I thought.
We stopped outside a door guarded by another woman in black. She opened it without speaking.
Inside was a conference room that looked nothing like the arena. Glass table. Leather chairs. A wall-sized screen showing statistics I recognized before I wanted to. Fight records. Win ratios. Injury histories.
My history.
"You have been thorough," I said.
"Thoroughness keeps people alive," Kade replied. "Sit."
I remained standing.
He did not repeat himself. He simply waited.
That was the first rule, I realized. He did not chase compliance. He expected it.
I sat.
The chair was comfortable enough to be intentional.
"You believe my suspension was convenient," I said. "You said that on the phone."
"Yes."
"Then why offer me work instead of proof?"
"Because proof takes time," he said. "And you are running out of it."
There it was again. Not cruel. Not kind. Just factual.
"What kind of work?"
Kade nodded once. The screen shifted.
My name disappeared, replaced by a list of upcoming matches.
"You fight for me."
I exhaled slowly. "I am suspended."
"By a public authority," he replied. "This is not public."
"You want me to disappear."
"I want you to compete."
"Without a name."
"Names are negotiable."
I leaned back, folding my arms. "And when the league comes down on you."
"They will not," he said. "They benefit from this system more than they admit."
Silence settled between us. Heavy. Measured.
I studied his face. There was no excitement there. No thrill. Just a calculation.
"You are not offering redemption," I said.
"No."
"Or justice."
"No."
"Just survival."
"Yes."
I laughed once, quietly. "You sell honesty like a weapon."
"It is," he said. "People underestimate it."
He tapped the table. A document slid across the glass toward me.
"Read."
I did.
The contract was short. That scared me more than fine print would have.
Independent contractor. Exclusive competition rights. Training and housing provided. Medical oversight is mandatory.
Then the rules.
Rule One. You fight only when scheduled. No unsanctioned matches.
Rule Two. You do not speak publicly. No interviews. No social media. No statements of any kind without approval.
Rule Three. You live where assigned.
I stopped there.
"Assigned," I repeated.
"Yes."
"You control my address."
"I control access," he said. "Security is not optional."
"You control my time."
"During training cycles."
"You control my silence."
"Always."
I looked up. "What do I control?"
Kade met my gaze without flinching. "Your performance."
"That is not control," I said. "That is an obligation."
"Obligation keeps you here," he replied. "Performance gives you leverage."
I went back to the page.
Rule Four. Medical compliance is mandatory. No exceptions.
Rule Five. Contract breach results in immediate termination and forfeiture of earnings.
There it was.
"If I walk away," I said, "you keep everything."
"If you breach," he corrected. "Walking away before signing is free."
"How generous."
He did not respond.
At the bottom was compensation.
It was more than I expected. Enough to breathe. Enough to last.
Enough to trap me.
"You are buying obedience," I said.
"I am buying reliability."
"And if I refuse."
"You leave," he said. "With tonight's payment. And this ends."
I imagined that. Walking back into my quiet apartment. Counting money that would run out again. Waiting for a system that had already decided I was expendable.
"What happens if I get hurt?" I asked.
"We intervene," he said. "You are more valuable intact."
"And if I win."
His eyes sharpened slightly. "Then you stay."
There was something beneath that answer. Something unspoken.
I closed the contract.
"You do not trust easily," he said.
"I do not survive by trusting," I replied.
A pause.
"You have forty-eight hours," he said. "You can review the terms. Consult legal counsel."
"I cannot afford legal counsel."
"I know."
I stood.
"If I sign," I said, "you own my silence. My location. My schedule."
"Yes."
"But you do not own my body."
Something shifted then. Subtle. His attention narrowed.
"No," he said carefully. "You are not owned. You are contained."
That was worse.
I walked toward the door. The guard opened it without being asked.
The noise of the arena flooded back in. Another fight had started. Another body in motion. Another risk taken for reasons no one in the crowd would ever understand.
"I will need access to my old medical records," I said without turning back.
"They are already in your file."
"Training conditions," I continued. "No interference during preparation."
"Granted."
"Opponent transparency."
"You will know who you fight," he said. "Not why."
I stopped at the threshold and turned.
"If I am still dangerous," I said, echoing his words, "you will not be able to control me forever."
His expression did not change.
"I am not interested in forever," he replied. "Only results."
I left without signing.
The money was waiting at the front desk in a sealed envelope. No receipt. No signature required.
Control, again. Even in generosity.
Outside, the night air felt thinner. Colder. Like the world had shifted while I was underground.
I walked until my legs ached.
By the time I reached my apartment, my decision was already forming. Not hope. Not fear.
Strategy.
I laid the contract on the table and read it again. Slower this time.
He was right about one thing.
Performance created leverage.
And if I was going to be contained, I would make myself necessary.
I picked up my phone.
Forty-eight hours, he had said.
I dialed the number he had called from. It rang once before connecting.
"I have conditions," I said when he answered.
"I expected that."
"I sign," I continued, "but I choose when my first fight happens."
A pause.
"That is not standard."
"Neither am I."
Silence stretched.
"Seven days," he said finally.
"Ten."
"Seven," he repeated.
I closed my eyes.
"Fine."
"You will be relocated tomorrow," he added. "Pack lightly."
The line went dead.
I looked around my apartment. The bare walls. The absence of a future I used to recognize.
I reached for my wraps.
If this was survival under control, then Chapter Two of my life had already begun.
And I was not planning to lose it quietly.