The streets beyond the Arena felt too quiet, as if the city itself were listening.Malik limped, Kwame steadying him; Rashid led, Jabari trailed, Tariq whistled a tune that didn't fool anyone.Ivo followed, eyes wide, clutching his bruised arm.
They turned toward the river. The air smelled of ash and grilled meat.Normal life pressed against them, unreal.
Ivo broke the silence. "I didn't think you'd actually help."
Malik answered without softness. "Stay out of there next time."
"I didn't owe them," the boy said. "My brother did. They came for me when he disappeared."
Kwame's brow creased. "The Arena doesn't care who pays, only that someone does."
Ivo nodded. "They don't even want money. They want control."
Rashid asked, "Breno runs it all?"
"He's just muscle," Ivo whispered. "The ones above him—you don't say their names."
Malik's ribs flared with every breath, but he managed a grin. "Then don't."
They walked until the market lights thinned. Rashid pointed toward a side path. "Home's that way."
Malik rested a hand on Ivo's shoulder. "You got lucky tonight. Make it count."
"I'll try," Ivo said. "But sometimes, the choices make themselves."
The words clung long after he was gone.
At the chapa stop, they lingered in silence.Rashid stared at the skyline. "Feels heavier now."
Kwame answered, "That's not the air."
Malik pushed off the bench. "Get rest. Tomorrow's still coming."
"Yeah," Jabari murmured. "Tomorrow."
But none of them believed it would be simple.Behind them, somewhere in the city, the Arena lights still burned—bright, patient, waiting.