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A production assistant with a glowing headset peeks around the corner. She holds up a single finger, signaling one minute until the broadcast throws to my walkout.

The roar of the arena filters down the tunnel. It sounds like a restless ocean trapped inside a tin can. Twenty thousand people bought tickets tonight. Millions more tune in through the pay-per-view broadcast. They all paid good money to watch a bitter rivalry culminate in a bloodbath. They expect a war born of hatred.

They will get the war. They will simply misunderstand the origin of the violence.

“Remember the game plan.” Dan steps directly into my line of sight. He grabs the fabric of my hoodie and pulls me down an inch. “He leaves his chin high when he throws the left hook. You slip outside, and you bury the right cross. You put him to sleep, Zane. You break his jaw.”

I keep my face blank and wait for him to let go.

“I will drop him.” The promise is genuine.

I intend to hit Micah Rivera with every ounce of power I possess. I intend to test his limits. He demanded my absolute best. If I hesitate for a fraction of a second, I insult the man I love. He worked too hard for this fight to get anything less.

“Good.” Dan releases my hoodie. He smacks my chest. “Show them why the belt belongs in our lobby.”

The bass drops.

My walkout track hits the arena speakers. The heavy, distorted guitar riff shakes dust from the concrete ceiling.

The crowd explodes.

The wall of sound crashes over me hard enough that I feel it in my chest. I walk forward. I step into the blinding white light. I march into the noise. I enter the last few minutes of my hidden life.

The cameras crowd my peripheral vision instantly. A steady lens tracks my movements, broadcasting my face to the world. I keep my chin tucked. I stare a hole straight through the back of the arena.

Fans hang over the metal barricades. They scream my name. Their faces contort with wild, aggressive joy. Hands reach out, slapping my shoulders, attempting to grab the fabric of my hoodie. Security guards in yellow jackets push the bodies back, clearing a narrow path toward the cage.

Jason Ortega stands near the broadcast table. He wears a tailored charcoal suit and catches my eye as I walk past. He nods once. A silent demand for perfection. A silent threat regarding the consequences of failure.

I look right through him.

The cage waits at the end of the walkway. Eight sides of chain-link fence. Bright, merciless lights beat down on the pristine white canvas. Those walls contained my entire existence for fifteen years. They served as my sanctuary and my prison.

Tonight, I want the world to see me.

I climb the steel steps. The metal groans under my heavy boots. The commission official waits at the gate. I strip off my hoodie and boots. He checks my gloves and the tape around my wrists, squeezing the tape to ensure no illegal padding exists. He slathers a thick layer of cold petroleum jelly over my eyebrows and cheekbones.

I duck through the narrow gate.

The familiar, stiff give of the canvas greets my bare feet. The metal door slams shut behind me. The heavy latch clicks into place.

A surge of adrenaline floods my veins. The air inside the octagon tastes different. It tastes like ozone and stale sweat.

I jog to my corner. Dan follows me inside, shouting instructions over the crowd. My muscles bunch and flex, primed for the incoming collision.

I bounce on my toes. I shake the nervous tension out of my arms.

Across the cage, Micah is already there.

He leans against the chain-link fence, a picture of coiled, lethal energy. He wears plain black fighting shorts. His black gloves cover the pristine white tape around his knuckles. His chain is tucked safely away with his gear.

He looks devastating. Sweat already shines on his collarbones from his warm-up.

He bounces on his heels, rolling his wide shoulders. He looks hungry. He looks ready to tear the building down brick by brick.

He turns his head.

Our eyes meet.