The club pulsed with music and bodies—bass reverberating beneath polished boots and clinking glasses. TF141 had scattered across a back booth, trading war stories and scuffed banter. Soap was halfway through a joke when Roach leaned in, his voice low.

“There’s a fight ring under the dance floor.”

Ghost tilted his head slightly. Price raised a brow. Nikto smirked. Alejandro’s knuckles tapped in curiosity while Rodolfo already began checking security feeds.

“A fight ring?” Farah repeated, skeptical.

“Free-for-all brawl,” Gaz clarified. “Winner takes all. No rules. Just limbs and survival.”

Tickets were bought. One by one, they descended into the dim-lit underbelly of the club, joining the crowd pressed against iron rails. Laswell monitored audio, Kamarov and Nikolai slipped quietly through side corridors, Alex flanked her with a portable relay.

In the center of the pit—blood-slicked concrete and flickering lights—you moved like instinct.

A man twice your size lunged, and you crushed him to the ground without hesitation, pivoting to duck a wild swing from behind. Seven others circled, but you never slowed. You tore through them with merciless efficiency—knees buckling, fists cracking ribs, your serrated elbow catching a jaw in mid-turn.

Price narrowed his eyes. “How old is that kid?”

“Can’t be older than fourteen,” Soap muttered.

Ghost didn’t speak—just watched. Hard. Focused.

Blood streaked your cheek. Sweat glued your shirt to your back. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Your baby brother was sleeping in a rundown apartment three blocks away, a blanket too thin, stomach too hollow. No government aid. No extended family. Just you. You had bruises for currency and rage for fuel, and if throwing yourself into these fights meant he stayed alive—you’d tear apart anyone who stood in your way.

Krueger leaned in toward Nikto. “She doesn’t break.”

“She adapts,” Nikto replied, eyes gleaming. “That’s better.”