10:30 AM.
Hannah stood before her bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of her white shirt beneath her dark blue vest. The morning light filtered through the executive district's artificial lighting system, creating the illusion of natural sunrise through carefully designed illumination.
She was reaching for her round-framed glasses when the door opened.
Charlotte entered without knocking—a privilege earned through years of working together—carrying her tablet, her expression urgent.
Hannah turned, slightly startled by the sudden entrance. "Charlotte? What's—"
"Young miss, you need to see this." Charlotte activated the tablet, pulling up official Underground communications. "There's a tribunal proceeding. Started yesterday evening."
Hannah took the tablet, scanning the information rapidly. Her fingers found their nervous rhythm against the device's edge—that irregular tapping she could never quite suppress when something caught her genuine interest.
"A missing fighter," she said quietly, reading. "Davis Brown. Executive Ross's sponsored fighter."
"They're accusing two participants," Charlotte continued, her voice professional but carrying an edge. "One of them is King."
Hannah's tapping stopped for half a second, then resumed with slightly more intensity.
The report detailed the accusations. Training relationship between King and another fighter named Odd. Timeline gaps placing both near relevant locations. Circumstantial evidence building a case for deliberate removal of a tournament obstacle to benefit the weaker fighter.
"When did this start?" Hannah asked, her tone carefully controlled.
"Yesterday at 8 PM. Day One concluded around 9. Day Two begins at noon today."
Hannah read through the evidence presentation summary. The way they'd framed it—motive, opportunity, suspicious behavior patterns. It looked convincing on paper. Methodically constructed to build reasonable doubt into something resembling guilt.
She thought back to that rooftop months ago. The young man who'd found Mint. Those striking blue eyes that had seemed far too aware, too calculating. The casual competence in how he moved.
If he was truly capable of making a fighter disappear without a trace, that would be valuable information. But if he crumbled under pressure, showed poor judgment in crisis, or revealed himself to be unstable...
That was equally important to know.
"Young miss," Charlotte said carefully, watching her employer's expression, "if you wanted to intervene... your family has authority. You could speak to the officials, suggest they—"
"No."
Charlotte blinked. "No?"
Hannah handed the tablet back, returning to the mirror to fasten the small black choker with its red bow—her only visible concession to personal aesthetic rather than calculated professional presentation.
"I want to see how he handles this himself."
"But if he's found guilty—"
"Then either he did it, or he failed to defend himself adequately." Hannah's voice was calm, measured. "Either way, that tells me what I need to know."
Charlotte studied her employer's reflection in the mirror. After years of working together, she'd learned to read Hannah's tells. The finger tapping. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes carried that particular focus when evaluating something—or someone—important.
"You're testing him," Charlotte said quietly.
"I'm observing," Hannah corrected, adjusting her glasses with careful precision. "If he's going to be responsible for my safety, I need to know how he performs under pressure. How he thinks when cornered. Whether he maintains control or loses it."
She smoothed her vest, checking her appearance with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years ensuring every detail projected exactly the right image. Professional. Composed. Completely in control.
Even when she wasn't.
"Arrange viewing access to the executive observation room," Hannah said. "I want to watch Day Two."
"Understood, young miss." Charlotte moved toward the door, then paused. "And if he fails? If the verdict goes against him?"
Hannah was quiet for a moment, her fingers resuming that nervous tapping against the dresser's edge.
"Then I was wrong about him," she said finally. "And I'll move on to other candidates."
But her tone suggested she didn't believe that would happen.
Charlotte left to make arrangements, closing the door with a soft click.
Hannah remained at the mirror for a moment longer. If King was truly as capable as she suspected, he'd find a way through this. And if he wasn't—if he was just another fighter who'd gotten lucky—then she'd learn that too.
Either way, the tribunal would reveal what she needed to know.
---
11:15 AM.
The mess hall buzzed with conversation.
Big Mama worked the kitchen with her usual efficiency, but even she was engaged in the discussion rippling through every corner of the facility. The tournament suspension had created an unusual situation—fighters who'd normally be preparing for matches or recovering from them were instead lingering in common areas, speculating about the tribunal.
At one table near the vending machines, three ex-fighters sat together discussing the situation.
Liu Yan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "I'm just saying, everything they presented yesterday was circumstantial. Training someone doesn't equal conspiracy."
"But why train a potential opponent that extensively?" Luc Shadow countered, stirring his coffee slowly. "That's not normal tournament behavior. Most people here are trying to gain advantages, not give them away."
Wu Dan nodded from his position at the end of the table. "Luc has a point. The relationship between King and Odd was unusual. And it only started recently—after Round 1, from what I heard. Why suddenly invest that much time?"
"Maybe King's just not a complete asshole," Liu replied. "Some people actually help others without ulterior motives."
Luc shook his head. "In this place? Look where we are. Nobody does anything here without angles. And timing matters—King started training Odd right when the brackets showed they wouldn't face each other until late rounds, if at all."
"But that means they could still have fought eventually," Liu argued. "So what's the benefit?"
"Davis Brown," Wu Dan said quietly. "Odd was scheduled to fight Davis. Tier 4 fighter with a brutal record. Everyone knew Odd had almost no chance of survival. But if Davis disappeared before the match..."
The implication hung in the air.
Xu Leo Kim approached their table carrying a breakfast tray, catching the tail end of the conversation. "You talking about the tribunal?"
"What else would we be talking about?" Luc gestured at the mostly empty mess hall. "Half the facility's obsessed with it."
Xu sat down, immediately joining the discussion. "I don't know. King's fights have been clean. Brutal but professional. Doesn't seem like someone who'd kill another fighter off-camera."
"That's exactly what makes it perfect," Luc argued. "Build a reputation as the mysterious skilled fighter, then when you need to remove an obstacle, no one suspects you because it doesn't fit the pattern."
Liu Yan looked skeptical. "Or maybe Davis Brown just disappeared for reasons that have nothing to do with King or Odd. Strange things happen in places like this."
Near the serving area, Big Mama spoke with Morrison—the younger guard who'd been increasingly distant over the past few days.
"I'll tell you what I think," Big Mama said, ladling food onto plates with practiced efficiency. "That boy King comes in here, always polite, never causes problems. Odd too. Both of them seem like decent people trying to survive this place."
Morrison nodded slowly, his expression troubled, but his response was careful and professional. "The tribunal will determine the facts."
"You really think either of them killed someone?" Big Mama asked directly.
Morrison's hand moved unconsciously toward his radio—a nervous habit. "I don't speculate about active investigations."
Big Mama snorted. "That's a politician's answer if I ever heard one."
"It's the only answer I can give." Morrison's tone carried finality. Whatever he thought personally, he wasn't sharing it.
Near the entrance, Mack stood talking with Viktor Ivanov—the Russian guard whose reputation for ruthlessness preceded him wherever he went.
"What do you think?" Mack asked, keeping his voice low. "Guilty or innocent?"
Viktor's expression was cold, professional. "Does not matter what I think. Jury decides. Crowd decides. We maintain order."
"But you must have an opinion."
"Opinion is luxury," Viktor replied, his accent thick. "Facts matter. Training relationship exists. Timing is suspicious. Davis disappeared before match with Odd. These are facts. Everything else is interpretation."
Mack looked uncomfortable. "I've talked to King a few times during his stay here. Seemed decent enough."
"Decent people do necessary things," Viktor said simply. "You understand this, da? Sometimes situations require... solutions."
Mack didn't respond to that, his expression troubled.
Throughout the mess hall, similar conversations played out. Theories. Speculation. Arguments based on the limited information from Day One—the training relationship, the suspicious timing, the circumstantial connections.
But notably absent were the two defendants themselves—locked in holding cells, waiting for the tribunal to resume.
And absent too were the fighters who'd advanced far enough to earn executive section privileges. William Walker. Plague. Adam Mavrick. They were somewhere else, watching from positions of comfort and status rather than mingling with staff and eliminated fighters in the mess hall.
Big Mama called out to the remaining occupants, her voice carrying across the space. "Day Two starts in forty-five minutes! If you're planning to watch, clear out now and head to the arena! I need to prep for whatever chaos comes after!"
The fighters and staff began filtering out gradually, still discussing, still speculating.
The tribunal had become the only entertainment in a suspended tournament.
And everyone wanted to see what would happen next.
---
12:00 PM.
The arena had filled quickly.
In a hidden section of the executive district—accessible only through biometric scans and multiple security checkpoints—an observation room overlooked the arena through concealed one-way panels.
The room was elegant. Refined. An enormous multi-angle display dominated one wall, showing the arena floor from dozens of camera perspectives with flawless image quality. Private booth seating with high-backed chairs offered comfort and privacy. A full bar ran along the right wall. Professional staff moved quietly, ensuring everything was perfect.
Only a few executives occupied the space. Their features deliberately obscured by careful lighting and positioning. Power preferred to observe from shadows.
Hannah sat in one of the private booths, Charlotte standing beside her with tablet ready. The display before them showed the arena platform in perfect clarity—better than being there in person, with the ability to focus on specific angles and zoom to catch micro-expressions.
"Recording is active, young miss," Charlotte said quietly. "You'll be able to review any moments you want to examine more closely."
Hannah nodded, her fingers tapping against the armrest in that irregular rhythm. "Good."
The display showed guards escorting the defendants onto the platform.
---
In the main arena, the pit had been transformed again into the tribunal setup. Platform at center with the officials' table. Two smaller tables facing it for prosecution and defense. Temporary tiered seating around the edges giving everyone clear sightlines.
Cameras everywhere. Multiple angles. Professional recording equipment.
Guards escorted Lucius and Odd onto the platform from separate entrances. Both had been kept isolated since yesterday's conclusion. They took their seats at the defendant table—Lucius's posture controlled and relaxed despite circumstances, Odd visibly more tense, hands clasped together under the table.
The four officials entered next.
Malik Hayes led, his heavyset frame and permanent scowl projecting authority and irritation in equal measure. Twenty years managing Underground operations had given him an air of someone perpetually annoyed at having to solve problems.
Jennifer Chou followed, her dark hair pulled back in that severe bun, carrying her tablet with characteristic precision. Everything about her suggested mechanical efficiency—someone who documented everything, scheduled everything, trusted nothing that wasn't properly recorded.
Marcus Webb moved with military bearing still evident despite years in civilian operations. Tall, composed, sharp eyes constantly scanning and analyzing. Former military habits died hard.
Robert Zhang brought up the rear, his lean frame radiating nervous energy, fingers already tapping rhythmically against his own tablet. The newest official, clearly uncomfortable with the spotlight but trying to project competence.
They took their positions at the main table—Malik center, flanked by Jennifer and Marcus, with Robert slightly separated to the side.
Mike Ross entered last with his two assistants.
That wide smile was fixed in place as always, completely inappropriate for the serious proceedings but seemingly permanent on his features. He moved to the separate table positioned between the officials and defendants—neither with one group nor the other, but clearly in a position of authority as the sponsoring party for the missing fighter.
His assistants took positions standing behind his chair. Leon Hauser on the left—average height, average build, professional suit, the kind of face you'd forget within minutes. Caesar Dan Chen on the right—equally forgettable by design, holding a tablet and slim briefcase.
The crowd noise gradually settled as everyone found their seats.
Malik Hayes stood, his gravelly voice carrying across the arena without need for amplification.
"Day Two of the tribunal will now commence. Executive Ross's representatives will present physical evidence and timeline analysis as outlined in yesterday's proceedings."
He gestured toward Mike's table.
Leon Hauser stepped forward, moving to the display screen with professional composure.
"Thank you. We'll be presenting evidence that directly connects the timeline of Davis Brown's disappearance to specific locations and actions taken by the defendants."
The screen activated, showing a facility map with highlighted corridors.
"Yesterday we established motive and opportunity. Today we present physical evidence."
---
The crowd leaned forward, attention focused.
Caesar Dan Chen activated footage on the display. "This is the medical area corridor. Davis Brown was last seen on cameras at 4:48 PM, leaving the arena floor during the conclusion of Round 3 Fight 2—King's match with Iron Clad Wang."
The footage rolled. Davis walking through corridors, heading toward medical areas, then disappearing from coverage.
"We identified three possible locations where he might have entered after leaving camera coverage," Hauser continued. "After systematic review, we found this."
New footage appeared. Blurry, the angle suboptimal, but showing a figure approaching a restroom facility in the medical corridor.
"Approximately 4:55 PM. Someone enters this restroom facility. Camera angles are not ideal for positive identification, but the timing matches Davis's projected route and walking speed from his last confirmed sighting."
He paused the footage.
"This restroom's interior cameras were non-functional due to maintenance issues. So we cannot see what occurred inside."
Lucius remained outwardly calm, but something shifted in his posture—barely noticeable, just a slight tension in his shoulders.
Hauser advanced to new footage.
"However, at 8:20 PM—approximately three and a half hours later—we have clear footage of another individual entering what appears to be the same restroom."
The screen showed a figure in post-fight attire moving through the corridor. The camera angle was better this time. Clearer identification.
King.
The timestamp read 8:20 PM.
For half a second—so brief most of the crowd missed it—Lucius's eyes widened fractionally. Surprise flashing across features he normally kept carefully controlled.
His mind worked rapidly.
'They have footage of me at a bathroom. Shit.'
The shock was genuine. They'd actually found footage of him in the medical corridor. That was—
'Wait. 8:20 PM?'
His analytical mind caught up, processing the timestamp against his actual timeline.
He'd left his medical treatment around 8:15 PM. Walked through the corridor. Stopped at a bathroom before checkout around 8:20 PM—that part was accurate.
'But Davis supposedly entered a bathroom at 4:55 PM. Hours earlier.'
The footage showed him entering 'a' bathroom. But were they the same bathroom? The corridor had multiple facilities. Similar angles. Similar positioning.
'They're assuming it's the same location. But the timestamps are completely different. And Davis would've been invisible to cameras with his chameleon ability active anyway.'
Relief washed through him—carefully concealed behind the same neutral expression. The footage was real, but the connection they were making was speculation. Different times. Possibly different bathrooms. No proof he'd entered the same location Davis had.
In the hidden observation room, Hannah leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on the display showing Lucius's face in close-up.
"There," she said quietly. "Did you see that?"
"Young miss?" Charlotte looked at the recording controls.
"Replay the last five seconds. Focus on his expression when they showed the timestamp."
Charlotte worked the controls. The display rewound and played again in slow motion.
That fractional widening of Lucius's eyes. The brief moment of genuine surprise. Then the rapid shift to calculation. The almost invisible relaxation of tension when he processed something.
"He was surprised they had footage of him," Hannah observed. "But then he realized something that made him less concerned."
"What does that tell you?"
"That the footage is probably real, but whatever connection they're making doesn't hold up under scrutiny." Hannah's fingers tapped faster against the armrest. "He figured something out. Timing, location, something that breaks their narrative."
Charlotte made notes on her tablet. "Interesting."
---
The murmurs spread through the arena. Suspicious looks directed at the defendant table.
Hauser continued, his tone professional and measured. "King entered this restroom and remained inside for approximately three minutes. Then exited and continued to medical checkout, which occurred at 8:35 PM according to official records."
Caesar stepped forward, reading from his tablet. "What makes this particularly relevant is what occurred later that night."
A new timeline appeared on screen:
4:55 PM - Someone (possibly Davis) enters restroom
8:20 PM - King enters restroom
8:23 PM - King exits, proceeds to medical checkout
8:35 PM - King checked out of medical
9:00 PM - King presumably in quarters
10:03 PM - Fire alarm activated in facility
"A fire," Caesar explained. "Started in the ventilation system near the medical area. Specifically..." He zoomed in on the facility map. "...approximately fifteen to twenty feet from this restroom."
The crowd murmured louder now. The timing was suspicious.
"The fire originated during the exact timeframe when Davis Brown was missing," Caesar continued. "And it started very close to the last location Davis was potentially seen."
Malik looked at Lucius. "Defendant, do you wish to respond to this evidence?"
Lucius stood slowly.
His expression had returned to that calm, almost casual demeanor. Not defensive. Not aggressive. Just... present.
"I did use a bathroom in the medical corridor around 8:20 PM," he said simply. "After my medical treatment, before checkout. Is that suspicious?"
"When it's potentially the same bathroom where Davis Brown disappeared," Hauser replied, "yes."
"Potentially," Lucius repeated. "That's speculation. The corridor has multiple restroom facilities with similar positioning. Your footage shows I entered a bathroom at 8:20 PM—nearly four hours after someone you think was Davis entered a bathroom at 4:55 PM. Different times. No evidence it was the same location. No evidence Davis was even in that bathroom at all, considering your footage at 4:55 PM is too blurry for positive identification."
He paused.
"And assuming what you're tdying to insinuate is true, what in gods name whould someone be doing in a bathroom for four straight hours?"
Some in the crowd murmured thoughtfully. The evidence wasn't as clear-cut as presented.
Mike Ross's smile remained fixed. "The defendant admits he was in that general area. And a fire started nearby hours later. Multiple connections to the location where Davis was last potentially seen."
"Fires happen," Lucius said. "Faulty wiring, maintenance issues, any number of causes. And dozens of people use those corridors daily—staff, fighters, guards, maintenance personnel. You're singling me out based on timing alone, which isn't evidence of wrongdoing."
He sat back down.
"If you have actual proof I did something wrong, present it. Otherwise, you're building a story from coincidental timing."
Malik raised a hand. "Let's move to the next topic."
---
Leon Hauser nodded, changing the display to show chemical analysis reports.
"Regarding the ventilation fire—investigation found traces of chemical residue at the origin point. Potassium permanganate and glycerin. Both substances that, when combined in specific ratios, create spontaneous combustion reactions."
The chemical formulas appeared on screen along with reaction data.
"These chemicals were found at the fire's origin point in the ventilation shaft," Hauser continued. "Someone deliberately mixed them. This wasn't accidental. This was arson."
Lucius remained calm. "Those chemicals are common in medical facilities. Potassium permanganate is used for wound disinfection and treating certain skin conditions. Glycerin is used for wound treatment and as a base for various medical preparations. Finding them near a medical area isn't suspicious—it's expected."
"But the combination," Caesar pressed, "in the specific ratio found, suggests deliberate mixing with knowledge of the chemical reaction."
"Or faulty storage," Lucius countered. "Or cleaning staff accidentally mixing incompatible substances. Or any number of mundane explanations that don't require assuming arson. You're presenting one interpretation as if it's the only possibility."
Marcus Webb interjected. "The fire department investigation concluded the mixing was unlikely to be accidental based on the positioning and concentration."
"Fire department investigators work with probabilities, not certainties," Lucius replied. "And their conclusions are based on physical evidence, not on assumptions about who might have had opportunity. Correlation isn't causation. Not to mention how convenient it is that your fighter was supposedly in the same facility, are you tellling me if that where the case that your fighter wouldn't be the mostlikely perpetrator"
The back-and-forth continued. Evidence presented. Rebuttals offered. The crowd watching like spectators at a match, following the arguments back and forth.
But the officials were building something. Layer by layer. Circumstantial evidence accumulating into something that felt heavier than its individual parts.
---
To Be Continued