Avenida was alive with horns and music, vendors shouting over the din.The chapa stop where they'd once met as boys now served as their rally point.
Malik leaned against a kiosk, arms crossed. He didn't want to be there—he was anyway.
Then he saw it: two men shoving a wiry teen against a wall.
"Ivo," Malik breathed. "My sister's friend."
Before anyone could stop him, he crossed the street.
"Let him go," he said.
One thug sneered. "Kid placed a bet. Kid owes."
"Not to you."
The shove came fast. The crowd sensed a show.And then another figure entered the circle—a man built like a battering ram, scar from temple to jaw.
Breno.The Enforcer. Quim's right hand.
"You step in for him," Breno said, calm as smoke. "That makes you responsible."
"Then deal with me."
Breno smiled and rolled a futsal ball beneath his boot. "The Arena doesn't fight with fists. First to two goals. You win, the boy walks. You lose…" He shrugged. "The Arena takes what it wants."
Without hesitation: "I'm in," Malik said.
Jabari's eyes blazed. "Same."
Tariq groaned. "Guess that leaves me."
The whistle blew.
The Arena had its first bite.