He wipes his face with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. The emptiness in his eyes flickers. Just for a second, something real cuts through. Something dangerous.
He leans closer to one of the white shirts. Whispers something in his ear.
That’s it, then. Dead because I couldn’t keep my fucking mouth shut. The thought slams into me, and something breaks loose in my chest. Laughter. Harsh and bitter, bubbling up from somewhere deep. I can’t stop it.
The official nods, making a note on whatever list he’s carrying.
Marco, his beautiful face now twisted with ugly malice, turns back to me. His fist comes up fast.
The world explodes into stars and darkness.
Chapter three
Robin: In the Belly of the Beast
Consciousness comes back in waves.
First, the throbbing in my skull. Brutal, relentless, like someone’s driving nails through my temples. Then the taste of the air—dank mustiness that makes me long for the salt breeze of home.
Something cool touches my cheek. Gentle pressure, but it’s enough to bring me back.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
My words come out slurred. I try to pull away, but my body feels like it’s made of rock. Everything hurts.
“Very well.” The voice is calm, steady. Male. “Assuming you want that cut infected.”
My eyes crack open. The world swims into focus slowly—stone walls, bright lights, and a man leaning over me. Deep brown skin, close-cropped hair. He’s wearing a Victoran-blue tunic, with gold embellishments, and he’s holding up something that glints in the light.
A needle.
I jerk back, or try to. My head spins violently, and I have to close my eyes until the nausea passes.
“Easy.” His hands are back on my face, fingers probing the damage. “Just cleaning this up. It won’t take a second.”
Memory slams back. That beautiful bastard Marco, his fist connecting with my cheek. The world exploding into darkness. I lift my hand to touch the spot myself, and wince at the pain. The cut is deep enough that I can feel it pulling every time I move my face.
“Who are you?”
He’s already back to work, dabbing at the wound with something that stings like hell. “Evander. Though most of them call me Doc.” A pause, and I catch the hint of a smile. “When I’m stitching them up, however, the names get considerably more creative.”
Despite everything, I almost want to laugh. Almost. The pain keeps me grounded, keeps the anger sharp and ready.
I force myself to relax slightly, let him work. He can’t do any worse than they’ve already done to me, and the alternative is infection. I need to be strong if I’m going to find a way out of this place. Whatever this place is.
“Where am I?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. Really looks. “You’re under the arena.”
I shake my head, sending fresh waves of pain through my skull. “The arena?”
He continues to eye me carefully. “Where are you from?”
The question is casual, but I catch the way he’s watching my face. Looking for something. I’m not giving him anything.
“Somewhere far away.”
He chuckles. “Welcome to Deathball.”
