I stood.
The tension in the air was thick, the stench of blood and sweat clinging to my senses. The arena still bore the scars of the last match—the cracked concrete where Stryker had fallen, the lingering echoes of his screams lost beneath the roars of the crowd.
I felt three sets of eyes on me.
"Good luck." Sienna's voice was softer than usual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. She didn't need to say more. I could hear the unspoken plea in her words—come back.
Camille was next. She smirked, though her usual teasing edge was dulled. "Break a leg. Preferably hers."
Alexis, ever the observer, simply studied me before nodding. "Be careful. She's different."
I gave them all a small nod before turning toward the pit. My heart was steady. My muscles were loose. The doubt that should have been there, the fear of stepping into a deathmatch, never came. Because I wasn't just fighting to win. I was fighting to live.
