The man let go of the Goblin's arm and brought the mic to his mouth. "Bets! Put them in to support your fighter! Remember, you can win big, too."

The tables lit up with a ring of a faint blue glow, rows of candles that flickered animatedly with hushed voices and playful shoves.

It was then that I noticed the small tablets around our table, the blue torch lighting our candle as well.

They were tucked in sagging leather pouches and the pixelated letters on the tiny, hazy screen seemed to blink faster in annoyance. Thin wire joined the bottom of the devices, snaking along the floor before climbing up the wall and across the ceiling. The forest of intertwining wires blended seamlessly with the shadows on the ceiling, and would have gone unnoticed had one not purposely looked for them.

"Are these for the bets or something?" Ken slipped one out of the pouch, illuminating his face with ghastly undertones.

"Probably," Matilda muttered as she inspected the one closest to her. "I suppose this is how the Swan keeps running, pulling in money from tired folks that just want to liven their spirits after a long day."

"Now don't be getting us in debt," She added, her eyes drifting suspiciously on Ken.

He put on a wounded look, raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Relax, I'm just inspecting it, I wouldn't do such a thing. Speaking of which, are Albert's debtors here?"

I scanned over the tables. Nothing, beside the chaotic din that muddled any sense of sight. And that seemed to squeeze Albert into a tighter hunch, as if trying to bury himself in his hopes that the tattooed man would never arrive, that it only was a bluff only to tickle his nerves.

"Last call!" The static of the mic's clipped feedback shushed the voices as people huddled over their tablets, the fingers punching furiously at rusty keypads flitting along the air. "Going once, twice... and that's it!"

A chorus of collective groans murmured across the tables as the slower ones slammed the tablets down in dissent.

"Why'd you cut the bets so short?" A man exclaimed.

"Well, I would rather not have a repeat of yesterday's little incident," The host said, the mic trembling as he shook his head at the memory.

"Aw, c'mon, we made a killing yesterday." The man leaned back, sweeping a hand across the tables. Nods and murmurs went around before being drowned out by the impatient thump of the mic.

"And that almost put us out of business." His eyes narrowed to slits, daring the man to challenge him. "No money, none of this. That wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

The man nodded and slunk back into his chair. "That's fair. Though I would love a couple coins to float my way."

"Doesn't everybody..." Someone muttered and more nods went around, a sullen cloud streaking silent tears down on peoples' cheeks. I glanced over to Albert and it looked like he had joined in, too.

The mic sputtered, lifting the heads of the downcast crowd. "What's with this sour mood? Add a little spice to today's bets leaderboard, alright?"

He waved a hand at a table in the far right, a myriad of wires stemming from a mishmash of tangled metal keys and switches—the rest concealed in darkness. They were little sticks that bobbed back and forth like those dented cans I would glimpse on the tallest shelves when running errands for Dave. Tucked away as nobody would even glance at their disfigured form. Yet their dented souls had waved to me ever so often, the uneven bottom swaying left and right, yearning to be used.

I shook my head, as if trying to shake off the guilt clawing at my chest from the memories of Arborad. The restaurant. Benjamin. Now's not the time to be dwelling on the past, I told myself.

"So they're the ones behind all this techy stuff," Matilda remarked, gesturing to the two figures around the table.

"Yeah, what did you think, that the host was doing some fancy magic?" Ken joked. "I don't even know what to call, now that you bring it up. A cool lighting mage?"

She turned red but the dark dimmed it to a faint pink. "Oh, shut up. Just because you know a little magic doesn't mean you're a know-it-all."

Ken scoffed but left it at that.

I looked up, the pixelated images strewn along the side of the arena had vanished, replaced with a flashing assortment of neon letters listing the top bets. One column for the Hawk and another for... the Rat?

"Ah, that was our previous challenger," The man said after confused murmurs broke out. "Didn't end too well for them after that fatal blow by the Hawk."

Fatal blow? I shuddered as the Hawk jut his chin out, puffing his chest at the mention of his name. A lustful stare threatened to drown his opponent in fear, but the Goblin just mocked him with the back of his head—indeed, a comic sight, his darting eyes on the audience.

As quick as a snap, the name disappeared—a grim reminder of their untimely fate—and was replaced with complementary lime lettering that read the correct challenger. A streamline border pulsed with a dotted purple glow that danced comically alongside animated bursts of aesthetic effects, fuzzy confetti sprinkling here and there.

My eyes drifted over to the block of translucent blue jumping from one bet to the next, highlighting the ridiculous string of numbers—my eyebrows nearly jumped when I read 220 gold for the top bet in one column.

But it wasn't for the Hawk. I had thought otherwise—nobody would take their chances on a wildcard, for sure—but the number remained suspended above the second highest bet of only 50 gold and below the lime letters that burned ferociously, demanding to be seen.

"It looks like you've got a few patrons on your side," The host chuckled, the Hawk's pointed nose wrinkling as he stepped out of the arena briefly to check the bets leaderboard himself. Not that he didn't have anything to boast about--his top bet sat at a comfortable 300 gold—but just annoyed that someone dared make a mockery of his prowess.

After letting him sulk in the spotlight for a few more moments, he patted the Goblin on the back as he headed towards the arena—a gesture of good luck or perhaps a grim farewell.

The Goblin snuck his hands back into the pouch as if it were a safe haven they could hide in, and shoved through the crowd surrounding the arena. The Hawk's gaze never left him as he stepped onto the metal floor, his worn boots padding softly like a cat's gentle paws.

A wee cat facing off a lion whose shadow loomed over him, slaughtered by an unnerving stare that would have made the strongest squirm. But he just stared blankly at the floor, smoothing out the creases in the hoodie as if grooming his fur.

An unnatural calm emanated around him as he bounced the balls of his feet in a poised stance, a bit too frantic for his indifferent look. Each bounce felt more like a restrained tremble hidden behind that grinning mask, enough to conceal his face but not the fear racking his body.

"Remember, contestants," The host said cheerily as if a bloodbath was not about to ensue. "It's a fight to the death, or until one yields. Both hands up high or they'll be dropping next to your dead body before you know it."

A few chuckles floated along the tables but subsided as a nervous anticipation replaced it, the tables buzzing with high-strug voices.

Worried glances lingered over the bets leaderboard as seeds of doubt began to sow the longer the thread of suspense remained. The lustrous numbers seemed to tease playfully with their brilliant luminescence, allowing the betters a taste of wealth on the tip of their tongues, the fantasy that played in their minds like a never-ending roll of film. One visit after another, a loss fueling an anger and disappointment some knew far too well, while the momentary rush of a win win only prompted the craving for more.

I looked over at Albert. He was like one of those crooked trees in the endless grasslands, his silhouette still hunched over as if unable to carry the weight on him and his arms hung to his sides like weathered branches that trembled in the slightest breeze.

He noticed my gaze and attempted a smile, straightening himself so that his face peeked out of the shadows. "Have you seen them yet?"

I shook my head, glancing at the entrance to affirm my answer. "Maybe they're not going to come?"

He returned my gesture and said, "They don't forget about these things easily. Man, the waiting is killing me! Did they take lessons from the host here?"

"Seems like it," Ken remarked and we all shared a hearty chuckle for a moment. A moment of bliss that slipped away as soon as it had come, harsher realities tightening our expressions.

"Whenever they come, I'm not looking forward to it," Albert said and turned away to not give us away—or perhaps to hide the fear etched on wrinkles on his face.

A brilliant sizzle and the bursting effects of confetti vanished, replaced with pixelated coins that showered over the hovering bets. The hundreds of gold coins seemed to pile underneath the Hawk and the Goblin—but not just under the leaderboard. The sinking weight seemed to tug at their hollowed souls, a fateful reminder of the pressure threatening to kill one of them at any moment.

The air stiffened to a choking squeeze as tense breaths stabbed at it, and the apprehension suspended above it was almost tangible.

Thud. The thread of suspense, hanging at the mercy of the mic, quivered in unison with the growing buzz of conversation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, fellow regulars and newcomers, the moment you've all been waiting for..."

He swept a hand at the arena as if unveiling a curtain and with a snap, the red glow burned to a blazing crimson, bathing the competitors in ghostly blood.

The Hawk's bulging muscles seemed even more defined, red underlines highlighting the dark streaks between the flesh. The air shimmered around him and his husky, ragged breaths whispered the wild lust flashing in his eyes, rings of gold that pierced the Goblin soulless stare.

"Let the bloodbath begin!" The host exclaimed and the tables watched the arena like the many lenses on the bulbous eyes of a bee, buzzing with clipped voices and muted tones.

But the thread of suspense only tightened in anticipation as the two remained circling the rim of the arena—the Hawk feigning jabs as if testing whether his opponent were just a fraud under the ominous mask.

But is he? I thought. Did that mask simply cover a scarred face that would make the ugliest turn away, or did it conceal something more? Behind the soulless sockets devoid of emotion, the uncanny grin, perhaps were scars that couldn't be seen. Scars that cut deep, hidden in the depths of his heart, and dragging down his feet with a heavy weight.

The weight of hesitation that tangled his feet as the Hawk stabbed the air closer this time. He flinched. It was only a slight hitch of his shoulders that retracted instantly, but enough that a small grin crept onto his opponent's face, an unspoken knowing that decisiveness would decide.

The mic stuttered. "We begin with a relatively slow start, the Hawk poking and prodding but neither of them willing to reveal their trumps."

The whispers had turned into discounted grumbles the longer the game of cat and mouse went on—they were looking for a game of blood, not bluffs.

"C'mon, are you telling me you're scared of a little devil's mask?" Someone called out, poking at the Hawk's shedding ego.

Others joined in, some making mocking jabs while others yelled out empty threats to fuel the boiling anger threatening to lash out at any moment.

And then he snapped. A nerve on his arm that had been struck lashed out with an untamed fury. It seemed to be another feint at first, but within the blink of an eye his face breathed mere inches from the mask, and his fist sunk into the soft wool of the hoodie.

Thud! The chains rattled violently as the Goblin hurtled against the cage, his stomach convulsing like the quivering metal. Thick strands of saliva stained the glossy teeth with gooey bubbles, and he extended an arm—the other clutching his stomach—as if to shield himself from another blow.

But as the Hawk took another swing, a sloppy hook reflecting the smug grin on his face, the Goblin snatched a chain with his free hand and shifted his weight so that his feet danced nimbly on the floor. The air shook as the fist slammed into it, rattling the chains as they seemed to shirk in fear.

"Quick and nimble on the feet—astute in the face of danger as well," The host commented. "But dancing around won't get anywhere, will it?"

A jump to the left, a leap to the right. A true game of cat and mouse had ensued as the Goblin narrowly evaded one blow after anothers, nipping at his opponent occasionally with quick jabs. But the Hawk, like any predator, was not fooled by a few cheap tricks and kept his distance so as not to fall prey to his prey's sudden bursts of blows, and to allow his seasoned eyes to hunt for a weak spot.

Just one small opening. A fracture in his opponent's defense that would open the floodgates to an onslaught of stunning strikes. To restore his status as undefeated champion.

A dangerous flash in his eyes told me that it no longer was a simple brawl; it was a game of ego and pride, and whose wounded wouldn't be able to fight on would truly decide.

My gaze drifted to the leaderboard, lingering on the blinking 220 followed by a pixelated gold coin. I decided I liked whoever was rooting for the Goblin, as a part of me also wanted him to win.

That it would prove even a wildcard like him could take on someone like the Hawk. That perhaps the three of us ragtag individuals could also take on the tattooed man, even with my stupid hands that I feared more than him. And that with hard grit and a sprinkle of luck, maybe—just maybe—we could find the flame keeper, and my father.

But perhaps it's just wishful thinking, I thought. Albert had almost died, Camila had been robbed of, and my hands throbbed with a searing pain every time I thought of them.

I looked up, snapping out of my reverie at the sight of Albert. His debtors had yet to be seen but as the hubbub above grew louder, signaling crime's busiest hour, I could only clutch my hands nervously like the many around me.

The two competitors circled parallel to each other and kept their distance, neither baring an opening nor willing to force one for fear of leaving one themselves.

"Has the Hawk finally met a worthy opponent?" The host broke the silence. "It seems he is not facing fresh prey, but one of his kin. A predator whose strange ways have numbed him, yet he, the Goblin, holds back in face of opportune."

"You two know that you have the audience's permission to shed a few tears of blood, right?" He joked after they remained, joined by a few chuckles. "In fact, they insist."

A moment passed. And then another. And just before the crowd burst into a roar of restless grumbles, the Hawk leaned forward and took a step. The gap closed and the grinning mask seemed to cackle at him, coaxing him to succumb to raw emotions.

But nothing of that. Instead, twisting his torso, the Hawk struck a punch towards his opponent, the smug grin replaced a clenched jaw as he pressed forward with cautious steps that planted firmly into the ground. But with a poised fist by his cheek, the Goblin parried the blows—albeit with some effort—and darted to another side when he couldn't.

A blow punched through the air. The Goblin ducked, sweeping his feet to catch his opponent's off the ground and the Hawk tripped. A single toe caught on the heel of the other's boot that sent him staggering, his arms flailing miserably as his ghostly expression braced for what was to come.

But only the sound of clanking chains smacked him in the face as he pulled himself up. By some miracle—or perhaps not for the other—the Goblin had faltered, had flinched. The same hesitation dragging down on him, sowing a heart when he should have killed it. The same hesitation that he desperately tried behind that mask.

The Hawk stood up, a grim look on his face as he regarded his opponent. "You made a mistake saving me."

"I thought so," He said but neither of them moved, each shrouded in fear of the other.

A deadly silence slumped over the tables, brushed by nervous chatter and punctured by sharp, firm footsteps.

My ears perked up. I whipped my head over to the shadowy entrance and a pair of silhouettes stepped out, a hundred heads seemingly following my lead before turning their attention back.

But my gaze, and Ken and Matilda's remained. Albert turned around as well and even under the darkness, I could make out his trembling arms as his eyes widened. I squinted and with the help of the faint glow of luminescence, their features slowly overcame the shadows.

The glint of silver locks flashed as the man in front jerked his head to the side, complemented by the disdainful glint in his eyes. But behind him, on the meaty flesh of an arm, was a serpent whose swirling eyes bore hungrily into mine.