It was time to go. Although Jonas had already watched the scene play in his mind, he hadn't expected the butterflies, or the blood rushing to his head. He watched as Brow fumbled with the keys, obviously just as nervous as himself.

As Jonas left the cage and stretched his back, he turned around to face his two friends. The three gave each other cryptic expressions that had a mutual understanding between them. After a moment, Simon was the first to speak.

"Jonas, if you don't make it back," his words trailed and there was a sad look in his eye, "Can I have your blanket?"

“I want the pillow,” Johnson grinned shamelessly.

“Thanks for the emotional support,” Jonas rolled his eyes at both of them.

“If it’s emotional support you need,” said Johnson, “I’m willing to trade it for lumbar support,” and he grabbed his aching spine.

“I won't give very good support if I'm cold,” said Simon, “Just let me warm up a bit.”

“Blow me,” said Jonas. The pep talk wasn't exactly inspiring, and if Brow hadn't been so nervous he probably would have threatened to beat them for wasting time. Luckily, he wasn't in the mood for beating slaves.

The two of them crossed through the slave room, the fight pits, and into the main corridor. Instead of going left to enter the fighter's barracks, or right to enter the gang member's barracks, they went straight. This stone tunnel eventually split into multiple hallways.

"That way leads to all of the private rooms," Brow pointed, he had a longing expression on his face, "This way leads to the entrance of the gang, and also the arena lobby."

Jonas' heart did a little pirouette when he heard Brow say entrance, and sure enough, they passed through a large room that held a metal door with two armed guards on either side. Jonas felt a sudden urge to lash out, to break Brow's neck, and to choke the life out of the door guards, but he swallowed his killing intent while quietly exhaling a deep breath.

"That leads back to Little Wrath City, I presume?"

"It's an entrance hall that leads to the back room of a bar owned by the gang. Slot machines, card tables, food, and drink. We provide many services to customers, but only members of the gang can come to the headquarters."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Jonas wasn't complaining about the information, he just thought it odd that Brow was in such a mood to share.

"You represent me, and I don't like being represented by ignorant teenage slaves who have no idea where they are. You couldn't escape even if you wanted to, I'm not worried."

"Very true," Jonas wasn't willing to continue any conversation that involved escaping, so he quickly changed subjects, "If I win, how often will I fight?"

"If?" Brow gave him a dangerous expression.

"When I win," Jonas corrected himself.

"Once a week, once a month, there isn't a set schedule. Fighters need time between fights to train and heal, while there's always the logistics of finding matchups and getting the fights agreed to by the city council."

As they conversed about the inner workings of the gang, they passed through a very long winding hallway that led to another guarded metal door. The armed guards opened the door for Brow, and he led Jonas inside a large stone room. Tables and chairs lined the walls, and there were over a dozen fighters and the gangsters they fought for.

“This is the waiting room. Fighters will remain here until their name is called, and through that door leads to the lobby of the arena. Unsupervised fighters are not allowed past this point."

"It's like a guarded maze," Jonas marveled at how big the headquarters was, "How did the gang get such a huge portion of Little Wrath City?"

"By being one of the top-three gangs, and by winning a lot of fights over a hundred years," he gestured for Jonas to sit on a bench, "It also helps that Howard Hurts is probably the strongest man in a hundred-mile radius. There aren't many who would think to screw with him."

"How strong is he?" Jonas wondered how the mysterious leader would stack up against his slave, Garth, as he had to be very strong to make such a wicked sadist obey.

"He could take the Sin Assessment if he wanted to," Brow had a fond expression as they talked about Howard, but something told Jonas that it was more a fondness for his power, "Since you're fighting a preliminary matchup, you won't be waiting long."

“Got it,” said Jonas, he looked around and was starting to feel sick of seeing windowless walls, while the air around him still smelled like sewer.

“Jonas,” began Brow but he was cut off by Jonas.

“Don't lose?” Jonas looked unimpressed, “You’ve only said it a hundred times."

“Mouthy slave,” Brow glared threateningly at him, “I was going to ask if you wanted something to eat before the fight, but now you can go fuck yourself.”

“Opse,” said Jonas, “Can you blame me?”

"There’s no profit in being kind,” Brow gave Jonas a serious expression, “In my mind, if our roles were reversed I doubt you’d treat me much better,” Jonas didn’t know what drugs Brow was high on, but they must have been strong if he thought that Jonas would ever enslave others, let alone beat, threaten, and intimidate them.

“Sure thing,” he sighed and stared up at the ceiling.

“Just wait here, I’ve got bets to place,” and he watched Brow exit the waiting room, and enter the arena lobby. Jonas looked around at the other fighters who occupied the room, and although he was familiar with a few faces, it seemed that the preliminary fights were mostly fought by blue-collar fighters who didn’t stand out enough for anyone to remember their names or faces.

Every time the door to the lobby opened up, Jonas thought it was his turn, but instead, one of those blue-collar gladiators would be chosen to fight next, and they would leave the room with serious expressions plastered on their faces.

Jonas didn’t blame them for not looking so excited, a single loss could mean the difference between sleeping in a bunk bed and sleeping in a cage. Eventually, his turn came about an hour later. Brow came through the waiting room door looking extremely nauseous, and Jonas could only assume that he had dumped most of his remaining savings into the fights.

“You’re up,” he said, “Last fight of the preliminary card so you better make it a good one, the crowd is bored.”

“Oh dear,” Jonas mocked, “We don’t want the poor crowd to be bored, do we?”

“Don’t antagonize them,” said Brow, “Become popular with the crowd and you’ll become popular with the gang. Never forget that it’s their purse that feeds us both.”

“I didn’t take you to be such a man of the people,” Jonas looked surprised.

“Fuck those dirty rats, I just need them to bet against you," Brow gave an evil chuckle. Jonas was led out of the waiting room, and into a huge area that had tall cathedral-like ceilings and was shaped like a ring. The arena lobby was quite loud, filled with a diverse selection of fighters, as well as gangsters from various gangs, each wearing different colors. The door behind Jonas was labeled, 'Hurts Gang,' and he noticed that all the doors around the lobby were labeled after the various gangs of Little Wrath City.

"This is crazy," Jonas was in wonder as he watched gangsters at a booth placing bets, and fighters sitting at a bar getting drinks. He could hear a tremendous sound coming from large doors on the inner ring, and knew that the crowd of spectators was much bigger than he had expected.

"The Hurts gang always enters through those doors of the arena. The crowd has their entrance and exit, as does gang leadership who usually watch from their private booth," Brow spoke as he led Jonas to the arena. Outside the arena door was a fussy-looking man wearing a tuxedo, jabbering away on a small earpiece while frantically waving Brow over.

"Brow, is your fighter ready?" The man looked skeptically at Jonas.

"John," Brow nodded, "He's ready," and John turned his head to whisper confirmation into his earpiece. Eventually, the doorman nodded his head and began to crack open the arena doors. The voice of a man on a microphone could be heard speaking, and it was loud and staticy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve come to the last matchup of the preliminary card!” Jonas then heard boos and heckling coming from the crowd, “Fighting out of the Young gang, weighing in at two-hundred and fifty pounds, and standing at six-foot-six, with a professional record of fifteen wins, twenty losses,” the announcer's voice became even louder as he enthusiastically screamed, “JAVIER, VENOM, GARCIA!” and Jonas heard an ugly mixture of cheers and boos, no one could tell what the popular opinion of Javier was.

“He just entered through the other side of the arena,” said Brow.

“And his opponent!” said the announcer, “Fighting out of the Hurts gang, weighing in at one-hundred and ninety pounds, and standing at exactly six feet tall. Fighting in his first professional match,” and then his name was finally called, “JONAS, ARIEL!” and he heard the loudest bout of boos that he had ever heard in his life, to the point where he was sure that the crowd knew exactly who he was and that they despised him.

“Tough crowd,” said Jonas.

“Give them something to cheer about,” said Brow, and then John fully opened the arena doors and gestured them both inside. The ceilings were round and at least fifty feet tall, and the thin pathway that Jonas and Brow walked led to a caged ring that was centered and surrounded by rows of angry, blood-thirsty, and extremely rude denizens of Little Wrath City.

Jonas glanced at a few of them and noticed that they all seemed to be in some sort of craze, where they screamed, shouted, pushed each other, and appeared murderous. His eyes circled back to the center of the ring where three men were standing. The one in the middle was short, squat, wore a black tuxedo, and was holding a microphone. Another man who Jonas recognized as a referee had his back against the cage wall closest to the door, and finally in one of the corners was his opponent, a huge man with tan skin, muscular arms, a terrifying face, and was covered in tattoos.

As Brow was leading Jonas to the caged doors, he occasionally had to slap away the outstretched hands of members of the crowd, who would scratch, claw, and grope any fighter if they were allowed to. When they reached the door, the referee opened it up and Jonas didn’t have a chance to consider anything as he climbed inside and heard the metal door shut behind him.

He stood in the arena and locked gazes with his opponent, and he was immediately greeted with a pair of cold black eyes that highly resembled a shark. Javier Garcia looked the part of a cartel enforcer, and he seemed to have tattoos covering every inch of his bare chest, his neck, and even on his face. He was massive and bulky, and Jonas couldn’t help but notice that his biceps looked like guillotines with the sole purpose of choking the life out of their victims.

‘At least he’s smaller than Ralph,’ Jonas couldn’t help but see a little bit of a silver lining as his opponent sized him up, and he was sure that just like the booing crowd, Javier had disregarded Jonas.

“The fight won’t end until one opponent taps by submission or is knocked unconscious, there are no judges, only carnage,” and the announcer yelled, “LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!”

Jonas felt his nerves spike as he watched the referee open the door so the announcer could leave, and then he stood in the middle of the arena and locked eyes with Javier.

“Are you ready?” it wasn’t a question, and even if Jonas hadn’t been ready he knew the referee didn’t care at all, “Are you ready?” he asked Javier and without acknowledging his reply, the referee shouted, “Fight!”