The white lights above buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow over the cold, empty interior of the cell. Till sits in the corner of the room, his back pressed against the wall, arms restrained and held against his sides by a fabric restraint. A shock collar rests tightly around his neck.

Ivan’s face still lingers in Till’s mind, more vivid than the glaring stage lights or the deafening applause of the audience. Why was Ivan so stupid? He could’ve won and gone to Round 7–hell, he deserved it.

Till replays the events of just a few hours ago in his head. The moment Ivan leaned in and kissed him, the way his hands closed around Till’s neck, not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to make it look as if Ivan was choking Till. He remembers the way Ivan’s eyes bore into his own, and then, the gunshots.

It all makes Till’s heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. A burden much too great for him to bear settles over his shoulders.