Three weeks in the city now. Lying low. Telling myself it was tactical.
The truth sat heavier.
I was hiding.
Theywere after me. St. Paul's School for Boys—the place that had carved out my insides and filled the space with something unclean. The organization that had taken nine terrified kids and turned us into weapons through methods that would make interrogators vomit. Psychological torture. Beatings that lasted hours. Sleep deprivation until we hallucinated. And at sixteen, our first kills. Required. Filmed. Kept for posterity.
We'd escaped at eighteen. Killed the headmaster. Took the money they'd withheld. Handed the FBI enough evidence to burn it all down.
It hadn't burned.
The organization expanded. Evolved. And now they wanted us back.
Or dead.
One of the others had tipped me off about Germany. Close. Too close. I'd left everything and caught the first flight east without checking the destination until I was airborne.
Bangkok made sense. It always did.
I shoved the thought down and kept walking.
Tonight wasn't about them. Tonight was about control—finding the edge of my violence and riding it until the pressure eased enough to let me sleep without seeing their faces.
The arena entrance was exactly where I'd left it: a rusted door in an alley that reeked of piss and gasoline. No sign. No bouncer. You knew or you didn't.
I pushed through.
The space opened impossibly—what looked like a closet became a gutted warehouse, walls tagged with names of fighters who'd earned Bangkok's memory. The ring sat center, elevated just enough that the crowd could press close without interfering. Industrial lights hung from exposed beams, casting everything in harsh white that turned blood black.
Noise hit like percussion—shouting, betting, the wet crack of bone meeting bone from whatever fight was finishing up.
I breathed it in.
This was church.
The promoter occupied his usual alcove behind the ring—barely a room, just enough space for a desk and his money. He looked up when I entered, his face cycling through surprise and resignation.
"Khun Kane." My name sounded wrong in his accent. "You fight tonight?"
"Who've you got?"
He gestured at a clipboard. "Somchai. Good fighter. Very strong."
"Beat him three weeks ago."
"Yes, but?—"
"Who else?"
His fingers drummed the desk. "Crowd is smaller tonight. No one wants to fight you." He switched to Thai, the words easier. "Too crazy. Too dangerous. They say you don't stop."
I counted ten hundreds onto his desk. Slow. Deliberate.
"Find someone. Now."
He stared at the bills. This wasn't protocol—fighters got paidtofight. But I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes. What Bangkok pimp turned down a thousand dollars?
None.
