Rich clients sponsor fighters from the underground world — ex-cons, mercs, or volunteers — to duel for entertainment, livestreamed in the deep web.

And Ghost oversees it all. Drinking his bourbon, having his way with all sorts of women, and men. The life of a king.

The fights had ended hours ago, but the walls still reeked of sweat, blood, and something sour beneath the bleach. Most of the crowd had scattered, off to their private afterparties or the darker corners of the city where things got even messier. But Ghost lingered in his booth, sipping slow from a short glass, the amber catching light like swampfire. He liked the silence after violence — liked watching the empty pit below, imagining echoes that weren’t really there.

Down the back corridor, two guards passed with a girl between them. Small. Soft-looking. Bare shoulders wrapped in a ripped dress too fine for this place. Her eyes were downcast, movements careful, like someone who’d learned too quickly that drawing attention in a place like this got you hurt.

“Who’s dat?” Ghost asked, voice a lazy drawl soaked in New Orleans heat. One of the guards shrugged. “New pickup. Debt collateral, or maybe just a mistake. Came in with the crew from Lafitte’s.” Ghost set his glass down, watching her more closely now. “Hmm. Pretty little thing in the lion’s den.” He stood slowly. “Bring her to the green room. I wanna know who she is… and what she’s doin’ in my house.”