RIVAL’S POV
The bruises hadn’t even bloomed yet.
I stood in front of the mirror the next morning, peeling off the bandages from my knuckles. The cuts were still raw, split wide every time I curled my fists. My ribs wrapped tight with tape, my jaw stiff from swelling.
And still, I smiled at the reflection.
The pit was mine.
Not Vega’s. Not Samuel’s. Not the crowd’s. Mine.
Every time I stepped in, they thought I’d break. And every time, I came out standing. It wasn’t luck anymore—it was inevitability.
By afternoon, Samuel called me in. Not Vega. Not one of the nameless grunts. Samuel himself.
He was in the backroom, the one with the red lamp and the smell of cigars soaked into the walls. Ledger books stacked high, papers scattered like confetti. He didn’t look up when I entered—just
