The crowd was still reeling. Some chanted Jack’s name. Others stood in stunned silence. The echo of Ryan’s hand slapping granite still rang in the bones of Harmonfield Mantle Hall.
Jack didn’t celebrate.
He turned slowly, walking past the roaring spectators, past Sarah and William, past the phones and flashing lights. He moved like a man with thunder behind his eyes and unfinished business in his blood.
He’d won… but it didn’t feel like victory.
Ryan Brooks slumped in his seat, hand trembling. Emily Wilson was already by his side, whispering something through gritted teeth. Her face wasn’t worried. It was calculating.
In the shadows of the east corridor, behind a half-shuttered velvet curtain, a figure clapped.
Slowly. Three times.
Victor Krane indeed.
He stepped forward, face half
