In an arena where the sand is soaked in blood and sweat, and the screams of the crowd drown out thoughts, every breath could be the last. But for Hotch, it was just another performance. He stood leaning on his gladius and watched with a slight grin as his opponent, a burly barbarian with bloodshot eyes, panted, trying to recover from his last attack.

"Are you tired already, strongman? - his voice sounded, not loud but distinct, and there was the same mockery in it that infuriated anyone. - But the show is just beginning."

"Oh, look at that, — Hotch drawled, addressing an invisible interlocutor and slightly shaking his head, - are you really frozen like a marble statue again? I thought your immobility had already reached the bottom, but it seems that you are able to surprise me in this striving for insignificance."

He arched an eyebrow, and there was a hint of mockery in his voice, laced with that trademark arrogance.

The last assignment seemed to have left a deep mark. The memory of the failed mission at the senator's house, where he had suffered the same injuries, made him grit his teeth. The left side of his face, partially covered by a mask, was still a reminder of that day. But even this unhealed wound could not break his spirit. There was still a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and an ironic smile did not leave his lips.

The arena was noisy and the crowd was cheering, but for Hotch it was just a backdrop. His thoughts were far away, in the shadows, beyond this bloody sight. He waited.