The night had settled over Oakhaven like a blanket of steel. The arena was dark, emptied of players and staff, the echo of Silas Vance’s brutal endurance still lingering in the ice beneath the boards. Yet the real danger had only begun.
Silas moved quietly through the dimly lit back corridors, muscles sore, ribs throbbing, blood still drying on his knuckles. Every step was careful, every sound measured. He wasn’t expecting company, but the sense of being watched never left him—he had learned that lesson the hard way.
A faint echo of boots on concrete reached him before he saw the figure emerge from the shadows. Marcus Thorne stepped forward, his face partially obscured by the hood of his dark coat. His presence was calm but commanding, the kind of presence that made Silas instinctively s
