Page 82 of Her Unending Horizon

There were some guys in T-shirts and boots, looking like they’d wandered in from a job site, but they were outnumbered by men in tailored button-downs and slacks, watches that cost more than my truck. Women threaded through them—heels, dresses, glittering jewelry, hair done like they’d stepped out of some Nashville gala.

They weren’t arm candy. Not exactly. More like predators in heels. Their eyes lit up when they looked at the cage, the way some people looked at prime rib or diamonds.

And everywhere, money.

A guy beside me flipped open a thick wallet and peeled off bills like they were napkins, shoving them into another man’s hand as they argued about odds. On the other side, somebody held up a phone, screen glowing bright with some crypto app, while his friend rattled off numbers.

No chips. No house-branded tokens. Just physical cash and digital ghosts changing hands faster than I could track.

My skin crawled.

“You’re early.”

Maurice’s voice sounded at my shoulder. I turned to see him in a blazer this time, pressed jeans, boots polished, a gold ring flashing on his right hand. He blended just enough to be one of the crowd, but his eyes were always moving, always tracking.

“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” I said. “Nice chandelier.”

His grin flashed sharp. “Owner likes to dress things up,” he said. “You know how it is. Old bones, new blood.”

Old bones, I thought, glancing at the exposed brick. New crime.

He clapped a hand on my back, not quite on the ribs he knew were tender, but close enough to make a point. “Come on,” he said. “Let me show you where you’ll be, and then we’ll get the show started. All the other fighters were early too.”

We skirted the edge of the crowd, staying in the dimmer halo just outside the intense ring lights. A couple of heads turned, calculating and curious, but no one approached. Yet.

Maurice led me to a side corridor that had probably once been a bottling line. The old metal railings were still bolted to the floor, leading to nowhere. Now, the long hallway served as a staging area: a couple of folding chairs, a water cooler with a stack of paper cups, two plastic bins of tape and borrowed gloves. Not that we’d need them. This time we were going bare knuckle.

No lockers. No showers. No coaches.

Just fighters.

I saw Tyler sitting on one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, his leg bouncing up and down like he had ants in his jockstrap.

Dammit!

Same kid as before—too-thin face, buzzed brown hair, eyes that had seen too much way too young, with a baby on the way.

Fuck!

He looked up when I stepped into the spill of light.

“Hey,” I said.

“Sir,” he said automatically, then grimaced. “Sorry. Habit.”

I huffed. “You know that makes me feel old, right?”

He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Maurice clapped his shoulder. “Post here was impressed last time,” he said. “Figured we’d give you another shot.”

My jaw clenched. Impressed wasn’t the word I would have used.

“You ready?” Maurice asked him.

Tyler swallowed, nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I—yeah. I’m ready.”

He wasn’t. Not physically, not neurologically, not anything. The bruise on his cheekbone was fading yellow now, but there was a haunted stiffness in the way he moved that set every EMT alarm bell in my head.