I hauled myself up—hook sink, pull—until I was level with Tetsu Tama. The platform loomed fifteen feet above, close enough to taste victory. My mind raced as I stole glances at him. We were in sync, hooking and pulling at the same pace.
Then flames erupted across the top of the platform, sealing the outer edges. Only a narrow gap remained at the center.
We froze, then lunged, racing for the single opening. I pulled ahead, near enough to taste it, then saw it for what it was. Tetsu Tama wasn’t falling behind—he was letting me take the lead. I’d seen how he’d climbed Shokaki like a ladder, hooks driven into flesh. Now he meant to do the same to me.
In that moment I knew the climb wouldn’t end cleanly. One of us would have to die. There was no way to outpace him. His reach was too long; he’d hook my calf like he did with Shokaki. My only chance was to outsmart him and use his trick against him.
Masaki’s words came back to me: Don’t be afraid to use your shield as a weapon.
I didn’t have my shield, but I had a weapon in each hand.
I climbed toward the gap, knowing Tetsu Tama was right behind me. He slowed, letting me get in front, waiting for his chance to strike.
But I struck first.
I swung the sharpened hook down—it sank into his shoulder. His scream tore through the arena; his arm went limp at his side. His hook slipped free and fell.
Dangling by one arm, the other useless, Tetsu Tama scraped against the slick wall of flesh with his boots, unable to find a hold. The lone hook keeping him aloft began to tear through the meat, fibers stretching and snapping.
He looked up at me, eyes wide behind his mask. I froze, chest tightening. I hadn’t meant for this—only to climb faster, to get ahead. But his hook chewed through the meat, tearing one strand after another.
Our eyes stayed locked as the carcass gave way, the hook ripping clean through. Tetsu Tama plunged, his arm still reaching for me. With a wet thwump, he slammed into the arena floor.
The crowd erupted, their cheers shaking the coliseum.
I pulled myself onto the platform, chest heaving and sweat pouring down my back. I stood tall, my chin lifted as I raised a hook in triumph. The roar battered me from every side.
My eyes found the viewing box.
Ginji was watching, his smile gone, his stare hard and furious.
For a moment he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Even from here I could feel it—that fury, that disbelief that I’d stolen his show again.
Then, as the crowd roared for me, he stayed seated—hands clasped, jaw locked, the only still thing in a sea of motion.
He wasn’t cheering. He was seething.
50
Miki
The mood in the viewing box was dire. The air still stank of spilled wine and rage. Glass crunched underfoot; food smeared the wall where Ginji had hurled it. His dancers huddled together, whispering, eyes darting to the door he’d stormed through. Even they were shaken by his outburst.
I sat frozen on the sofa, pulse hammering. Every smile I’d faked, every laugh I’d forced—I thought none of it would protect me. I was sure I’d be the target of his rage, the one he’d take it out on. As he’d watched Akiko on that platform, his body had trembled so violently I thought he’d explode.
Instead, he ripped apart the viewing box on his way out.
I stayed where I was, stomach clenched, one thought running through my mind: When the arena went quiet and the guests were tucked into their rooms, would Ginji come for me again?
A shadow fell over me. Masaki. His face was unreadable as he motioned for me to stand. I thought he meant to drag me back to my room and leave me waiting for Ginji.
“Follow me,” he said.
I hesitated, fear clawing up my throat, every instinct screaming to run. But he took my hand and pulled me to my feet, steering me toward the exit.
My legs moved, but my mind resisted. I wanted no part of the ride back to the mansion, to the bed where Ginji waited. But Masaki led me a different way, down a stairwell, through a heavy door—into a dim corridor stripped of the sleek corporate finish.
This was the underbelly of the coliseum.
