Clean. Precise. Fast.
He gasps once. Then nothing.
No cheers this time. No roar of the crowd. Just me and the silence.
I wipe the blade, slide it back into place, and walk out into the night. The stars above Seville burn white-hot against the ink-black sky, like a thousand eyes judging me from afar.
The Seal pulses again, quiet, questioning.
And this time… I don’t shove it away.
2
KALEIGH
The elevator creaks like it’s regretting every floor it has to climb, whining beneath my boots as I ride it to the top of the old theater. Someone gutted the place and rebuilt it into a nightclub for sadists and gamblers, if the street rumors are right. Pilar didn’t give me much more than that, just a text and a pin drop, followed by the kind of smile that promises trouble. She was waiting outside my building like the whole thing had already been decided.
The text said:Consult needed. Trauma profile. Discretion required.
I told her I don’t work off the books. She said I do now.
So here I am. In heels that feel too loud and a silk blouse that clings in this humid Seville heat. My notebook’s tucked under my arm, pages blank, my pen clipped with the confidence of someone who isn’t sure if she’s walking into a therapy consultation or a hostage situation.
When the elevator doors open, the hallway yawns out like something from a half-finished noir film. Concrete walls, crimson lights bleeding from wall sconces shaped like antique horns, and music pulsing faintly from somewhere below. Thescent hits next: cologne, sweat, and the coppery edge of old blood not properly scrubbed clean.
At the end of the hall, a man waits.
He’s older, somewhere north of fifty, in a cream suit that probably cost more than my last year’s rent. His hair’s slicked back to showcase a widow’s peak, and he holds a cigar between two fingers like he was born doing it. He looks at me like I’m either a very expensive toy or a disappointment already taking up too much air.
“Doctor Morgan,” he says, offering nothing but the title. “I’m Mateo Cruz. We spoke briefly through Pilar.”
Briefly might be generous. A twenty-second call where he said my credentials were acceptable and hung up before I could even ask what he expected from this consult.
“Yes. You said you needed a trauma assessment on one of your fighters.” I keep my voice steady, professional. My heels click once as I step forward, but I don’t offer my hand. The room smells like power games and I’ve been in too many to fall for the opening handshake.
“Correct. One of my most profitable.” He doesn’t smile when he says it. “But lately… let’s say the bull’s been unpredictable.”
I tilt my head. “You think he’s having a psychological breakdown?”
“I think he’s becoming a liability.”
That word always burns. Like the person he’s referring to is a faulty engine, not a human being. “Then it’s good you called a doctor instead of a mechanic.”
Mateo eyes me, then gestures to a side room with a glass door. “He’s in there. Waiting.”
“Does he know I’m coming?”
Mateo smiles now, and it’s not reassuring. “He was told. That’s different than knowing.”
I don’t reply. I just step through the doorway and into a room that smells of leather, steel, and the kind of sweat that never entirely leaves. The lighting’s softer here, half the bulbs dead or dying. There’s a bench press shoved into the corner, an open locker with a torn towel hanging inside, and a few bloodstained wraps left abandoned on the floor like they tried to crawl away.
And him.
He’s sitting on a metal bench, arms braced on his knees, body hunched like a man trying not to punch the ground. His skin gleams with fresh sweat, dark hair matted to his forehead, and there’s a strip of gauze around one knuckle that’s already soaked through with red. He doesn’t look up at first. Just breathes slow, measured, like he’s counting to ten but got stuck at six.
“Rafe Calderon?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
His head lifts.
