An unearthly silence froze the place as we stepped down the stairs, a hundred heads turning to trail us with suspicious eyes. But, as if someone had snapped their fingers on cue, their gaze shifted back and the clamor resumed, like we were never there in the first place.

Long bars of fluorescent lights ran along the ceiling adjacent to crack-stained wooden beams, and the hum of a faint blue glow illuminated the chaotic din of laughter and yelling.

The commotion emanated from the jumble of round tables strewn along the floor nearest to us, littered with chairs surrounding the tables but elsewhere was not uncommon. Black skeleton legs formed the frame of the chairs, bound together with a metal ring, and the splitting leather seats revealed a spongy cushion beneath.

A few tipped over as players stood up excitedly to exclaim victory, a chorus of groans erupting from one table to the next. Other chairs suffered a more forceful fate: one man hurled the wooden frame against the wall in a fiery rage, a ripe tomato threatening to burst into a hundred pieces.

Cards lay scattered across the tables, their edges frayed and artwork faded, and glimpses of silver and gold huddled around the players, some more than others.

"Shall we sit over there?" Ken pointed towards a small table sulking in the corner, the blue fluorescence grasping at the darkness surrounding it, but only managing to meet the lesser shadows.

"Yes, you three can stay over there. No need to stand out." Albert said as he scanned the tables for a sign of the tattooed man.

He seemed to have blended seamlessly into the crowd of players, the dim lighting concealing the faces of those who could be seen—a variety of emotions flashing by as I glanced across the tables—and a sea of others whose hunched backs stared back at us. Or perhaps he was just running on time; we were a bit early.

"If the situation gets a little... escalated later," Albert called. "I mean, I'll try not to push it, but you'll help me out, right?"

"Of course! We'll beat the flippin' hell out of them if one of them dares set a finger on you—and even if they don't, we're going to need to do so to get our emblem back," Matilda patted him on the back comfortingly, but his back only hunched more as if to hide amongst the darkness.

"Yeah, we'll just have to see," He breathed a sigh of grim acceptance, relief bottled up behind his vacant gaze that could only stare at the floor.

We headed towards the small table and pulled up three spare chairs from an adjacent table, fitting ourselves so that the shadows concealed our prying eyes. Albert took a seat two tables away from us, keeping enough distance that we would not seem suspicious, but close enough to observe him distinctly.

Eyes darting back and forth nervously, he clenched the hem of his coat tightly, squeezing and letting go in cue with his ragged breathing. The tattooed man was nowhere in sight, yet he was anywhere but, seemingly suspending Albert on a thread of suspense that threatened to snap at any moment—

A shrill, piercing screech shattered my eardrums as the masses of people cowered, the whoosh of heads ducking and frantic scraping of chairs against the floor filling the once sober atmosphere.

"Heh, heh. Sorry about that, folks! The mic just slipped outta my hand," Someone called out and I squinted to make out the source: a middle-aged man dressed in a popping purple suit gently plucked the mic off the floor like a delicate dandelion, adjusting it in his hand until it was centered perfectly.

But more popping than his suit stood beside the man.

In front of a patchwork wooden wall whose two sides curved slightly inwards, and in the center of a lowered area accessible via surrounding circular steps, was an octagonal arena lined with chained walls stretching to the ceiling—a patch of trimmed chains forming the entrance. The cold metal flooring glimmered under the faded red luminescence, and an assortment of pixelated images danced along the chains.

A flashing, pink strawberry advertised a fresh produce store nearby and swirling letters spelled out a simple Fight! alongside an animated fist pumping up and down.

Encircling the bottom were a ring of criss-crossing brown streaks, a few darkened patches here and there as they quivered against the shadows. It does somewhat resemble a nest, I thought, chuckling.

People trickled into the growing crowd huddled around the cage, buzzing with nervous anticipation, and the air filled with hushed whispers that quieted as the purple-suited man stepped onto a gray podium.

The scattered shuffle of cards followed one after another like a resounding echo, and the players shifted their chairs silently to face the host—the three of us doing the same.

He tapped the mic once, a thud that resonated through the still surroundings, and was accompanied by the faint hum of music above and the thumping of footsteps. The mic cackled, forming a fragile tether with the man's voice as snippets of words clipped into the abyss of silence.

"Welcome, everyone, to tonight's fight to the death! Are you ready?"

A roar of whoops and deafening clamor shook the air with an excited electricity, but the host only feigned discontent, jutting out his lip in a mock pout.

"What? That's the best you can do for Wynnville's most hair-raising, gripping arena?!"

The clamor shot up to a thunderous uproar, the masses of people shooting up to exclaim their dissent. The sea of heads cast long, drowning shadows over the darkness surrounding us, an abyss that swallowed my hands in a void of black.

The mic cackled again, a tremble at first that morphed into booming words, and the heads ducked down one by one like a row of dominoes falling over.

"That's more like it," The host chuckled, a static-coated laugh that scraped against my ears. "Now the moment you've all been waiting for..."

He let his words ring through the air for a moment, a rare silence overcoming the crowd before the faint hum of music above broke the sterile atmosphere and snippets of conversation trickled along the tables. With a snap of his fingers, the fluorescent lights dimmed, leaving only a few bars illuminating a single table near the front.

"May I welcome the one who you all dutifully kneel to, master of fists, and our reigning champion, the Hawk!"

A brilliant blue burst from the patch of lights and the bars buzzed with electricity, blinking away sparks from the sudden surge. Basking in the spotlight was a stocky man whose golden eyes scanned the tables and bored dangerously into those who dared not to applaud his appearance. The Hawk—a fitting name for his sleek yet muscular build, and piercing eyes.

His body was a mosaic of toned streaks and thick muscle that shifted as he rolled his shoulders and flexed his biceps—not a bulging hunk of flesh that squished awkwardly, but finely sculpted with strength and agility kept in mind.

Whoops and hollers bombarded the man as he stumbled through the tables, begrudgingly accepting pats on the backs and handshakes—it was more of handsqueeze as anyone who managed to get a chance was left wringing their lifeless hand. He sauntered over to the arena and the surrounding crowd parted to make way.

With a swift leap, he landed on the metal floor with a thud, a stance poised for battle as he set his shoulders square and his chest pumped rhythmically to his pulsing muscles. The floor had been elevated enough that people in the front seats could enjoy the gore up close and personal, while spectators like us had a decent view—though I didn't know what to make of it.

"Folks, we have our champion... and he demands a challenger," The host boomed, sweeping a hand over the arena.

A withering gaze raked over the audience as the Hawk scoured the crowd for his prey. Not a quick meal that would only stroke the hairs of his ego, but an opponent that would fight to their death and prove his worth for all to marvel at.

"I mean, I would take a few swings at this guy if we weren't trying to lay low," Ken scoffed, a dark silhouette speckled with varying shades of gray that shifted as he spoke. "He'll be twitching on the ground, crying like a baby faster than he can say 'Hawk'."

He smashed a fist into his palm as if to prove his point, and Matilda just snorted, her dark hair tickling the shadows as scattered bits of light sprinkled the flowing strands. It almost seemed like she rolled her eyes, but perhaps it was just a trick of the dark and light knitting to form what I thought was a smug glance at Ken.

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around, considering you wouldn't last a second in that death pit with that wry tongue of yours," She said, twirling a lock around her finger. "If anything, I'd be able to put up a decent fight if they allowed me even a small butter knife. But it seems to be only a good hand-to-hand brawl till the last drop of blood."

"I challenge the hawk." A small but firm voice broke through the commotion and a wave of heads whipped to the source, the racket diminishing to a murmur as people whispered about who had been brave enough—or stupid enough—to step up to the challenge.

The mic's feedback stuttered, a hint of curious inflection as the host's gaze combed through the crowd for the culprit. "Trying to take the spotlight for yourself, huh? Can you stand up so we can see your face?"

A figure stood up two tables away from us, facing sideways so that I got a glimpse of his face—not much under the darkened lights, though. But as a crisp snap echoed off the walls, a silent darkness swallowed the lights in the front, and another patch lit up above the challenger.

Under the glow, the hunched silhouette took on a gray complexion highlighted by dancing specks of blue fluorescence, a sagging hoodie that draped over a pair of worn cargo pants.

The figure shifted and his hood slipped slightly, revealing a strange mask shrouded behind the wool, tufts of dark hair brushing against it. A pair of ivory fangs, complemented by two ashen horns poking out from the hood, scraped against the gaping mouth of black, surrounded by a crimson face the color of fresh blood.

Beneath the horns stared soulless sockets whose tears peeled off bits of paint and left long streaks of crisp wood.

Thick woolen gloves, blending perfectly with the dark, fit snugly over their clenched fists to complete the incognito.

"Aw, don't be shy." The host coaxed, lowering his voice so that it drifted through the mic smoothly. The figure didn't budge and their hands curled into tighter balls of night as muffled breathing stabbed the air, a harsh, scraping sound laced with pain and throbbing.

"Well, keep the mask on if you must, but your prowess—or lack of it—will be no secret once you step into the arena."

The figure grunted, offering only a curt nod as he headed towards the man. Curious stares trailed him past the tables, some extending their hands to give congratulatory pats and handshakes, only to be left hanging to a cold shoulder and the devil's glare. The black sockets held a trembling darkness but not a flicker of malice shone as he dropped his gaze, only the look of wounded heart that wished to be left alone.

An aura of indifference swirled around him, forming a path as chairs shifted not to make way but to ease the dread as he passed them. It acted almost like a shield, to coat him in a layer of protection just like the mask did, and I could only wonder what he was hiding inside beside his identity.

He had started towards the arena when the man pulled him aside to the podium.

"Excited, huh?" The host said. "Could you give us your name? Or a name. Just so the audience knows who they're rooting for—or against."

The figure paused and dug his hands into the front pouch of his hoodie, its edges frayed and fuzz peeking out as if worn from frequent use.

Then he spoke up, the two rows of yellowed teeth on the mask unmoving like the muffled voice behind it. "The Goblin."

"The Goblin... small but ferocious, I like it!" The host took the Goblin by the wrist, raising it in the air as he bellowed into the mic. "Show some love to our newest challenger, the Goblin!"

A chorus of fanatical hollers and whoops erupted from the tables as some clapped modestly, remaining in theirs, while others shook their fists passionately and stood up as if to get his attention. But they all stared with the same thirst in their eyes, the same longing for a good fight. An up and down bloodbath that would keep them at the edge of their seats until the last drop of blood out from the loser.

"I kinda feel worried for him," Matilda murmured. "The Hawk doesn't seem to be the merciful type, y'know?"

Ken nodded. "Yeah, but we'll just have to see."

We'll just have to see... I thought grimly, reminded of Albert's reply earlier. Whipping my head around, my gaze flickered between a few tables before settling on the fluffy silhouette of his beard. I almost hadn't recognized him—his back hunched like a sullen vulture, his arms frozen in place as he clenched his coat tightly. Almost as if to wring out the beads of fear trickling down his brow and onto the coat.

My hands tingled, like sparks dancing underneath the bandages, and I wrapped them around each other protectively, but never enough to cover them both. I had achieved some degree of control over my magic, yet I was powerless at the same time, the bandages binding the flame to my fear of pain. A shower of cold sweat doused my neck at the thought, but knowing Ken and Matilda were next to me calmed my jittery nerves.

If it came down to it, Matilda would be able to get a few hits to the tattooed man's head, and Ken would finish him off with flair—or a flare, for that matter. And if Camila was here... she would get a hold of his finger and never let go.

But the sinking feeling remained: that I could do nothing to help them if things went astray, that I would succumb to a primal fear in the heat of the moment.

That churned an unsettling sickness in my stomach.