Once again, they found themselves back in the same room. The same metallic chair, the same scent of bleach, but with a different air hanging about them. Bellows sat across from Rof, a folder resting on the table between them. He'd swapped out his toothpick for a cigar, still unlit. He continuously rolled it between his fingers as he talked, a nervous habit that made him appear less anxious.
"Two fighters," Bellows began, "Tank and Silas. Do you understand the significance of those names in this tournament?"
"Product," Rof responded.
Bellows pointed at him approvingly. "Good, you're catching on. Yes, product. Between the two of them, they've fought in forty-seven matches. Forty-seven paydays for me, for the higher-ups, for everyone in this building who makes money without shedding a drop of blood." He flipped open the folder. "You managed to take both of them down in just two nights. Tank's in the hospital. Silas," he paused, shaking his head, "Silas is holed up in his locker room, refusing to talk to anyone, which is unheard of. That man always has something to say."
Rof remained silent.
"The reality of the situation," Bellows continued, "is that you're now the product. Whether you like it or not. People witnessed it tonight. The news is already spreading. By tomorrow morning, people in this city who've never attended one of my events will know the name Rof Leon." He slid the folder across the table. "I want to make things official."
Rof just stared at the folder without touching it.
"Exclusive contract," Bellows explained. "You'll only fight for me, in my events. I'll choose the opponents, the schedule, and I'll take thirty percent of the prize money. You'll receive the rest, along with a guaranteed monthly salary." He leaned forward. "Ten thousand a month. Regardless of whether you fight or not. Your father will never have to wake up before eight in the morning again. That's my offer."
Silence filled the room for a moment.
Ten thousand a month.
Rof did the calculations in his head. He wasn't the best at math, but this was simple enough. His father's medical bills, the trailer payments, food, necessities. Ten thousand would cover all of it, with some left to spare.
"I need a week," Rof finally said.
Bellows's expression hardened. "I'm offering you a lifeline, son."
"I'm aware. I need a week to think it over." Rof stood up, feeling a twinge in his ribs. His eye was still swollen, his vision blurry on the left side. "Seven days. Then I'll give you my answer."
Bellows studied him for a long moment, rolling the cigar in his hand. "You've consulted with someone before coming here."
Rof didn't respond.
"The girl," Bellows guessed. "Vera." He said her name with a neutral tone, hiding any strong feelings he might have about her. "She's already gotten to you."
"Seven days," Rof repeated.
He left the room before Bellows could respond.
Outside, the night air was a refreshing contrast to the stuffy corridor. The crowd was dwindling, with people making their way to their cars and buses, dispersing in the many directions that underground money tends to go.
Vera was waiting by the black car, arms crossed. She had changed her jacket, but her expression remained the same.
"He offered an exclusive contract," Rof told her.
"I know," she said.
"Ten thousand a month, guaranteed."
"I know."
Rof paused in front of her, his good eye meeting her gray ones. "How do you know?"
"Because that's what I would offer," she replied, pushing off the car. "Get in."
He complied.
She drove in her usual manner—smooth, calculated, as if every turn had been predetermined. The cityscape passed by outside the windows.
"The contract is a trap," she warned. "It might be comfortable and well-constructed, but it's still a trap. Bellows gets to decide who you fight, which means he gets to decide when you're ready to fight opponents you're not prepared for. He'll build you up as long as you're profitable, but the moment you're not—" she turned a corner, "he'll throw you in a match you can't win to cash in on the insurance."
"What insurance?" Rof asked.
"Every fighter in his roster is insured. If you die or get permanently injured in the ring, Bellows gets paid. It's built into the entry fee every fighter pays." She glanced at him. "You paid it. On your first night. It was in the fine print."
Rof felt a chill run through him that wasn't from the night air.
"Is that even legal?"
"Not in the slightest," Vera answered. "But legality isn't really a concern where we are."
He looked out at the road. "So, what's the alternative?"
"The special bracket," Vera suggested.
The words echoed the ones the doctor had said on his first night. Rof had been waiting for it to come up.
"Explain," he requested.
Vera took a moment, not hesitating but organizing her thoughts. Like someone with a wealth of information, deciding how much of it to share.
"The tournament has two structures," she began. "The public bracket, which you've been participating in. Bellows controls it. There's real money involved, but it's regulated. The fights are mostly genuine, but the outcomes can be manipulated." She paused. "The special bracket has no such restrictions. Sixteen fighters. Single elimination. The prize isn't ten million. It's fifty."
Rof froze.
"Fifty million," Vera confirmed, stating it as a simple fact. "Winner takes all. No guaranteed monthly salary. No safety net. No Bellows. The fights are completely real, and some of the competitors have been training for this their entire lives." She turned onto his street. "Three of the sixteen spots are already claimed by men who could finish you off in a minute flat. No special skills, gifts, or divine intervention would save you—just sixty seconds and it's over."
His trailer came into view. The dim light in his father's window.
"But the other thirteen spots," Rof started.
Vera pulled up and put the car in park.
"The other thirteen spots," she said, "are the reason I was in the arena the night you fought Tank. I've been observing this bracket fill up for two years, searching for something." She turned to face him. "I think you're it."
Rof gazed at the trailer. His father's window.
Fifty million.
His father enjoying his morning coffee on the porch. No more factory work. No more coughing from exhaustion. The kind of life a man deserves after thirty years of back-breaking labor for people who don't even know his name.
Rof opened the door.
"Give me two days," he said. "Tell me everything about the other fighters."
He got out and walked towards his trailer.
At the entrance, he paused, turning back.
"Vera," he called out. His voice echoed through the silent street.
She had her window down, watching him.
"Why does it have to be me?" he asked.
She took a moment before answering, long enough to imply that she had thought about not responding.
"Because the man who wins that bracket," she said, "will be more than just a fighter at the end. And I need to be standing next to whoever that is." She looked at him, unflinching. "I chose you. Don't prove me wrong."
She rolled up her window.
And drove away.
Rof stood at his door, key in hand.
Fifty million dollars on one side.
His father's steady breathing on the other.
And something inside him awakening, surging, yet unnamed, pressing against his ribs as if it already knew the answer.
He stepped inside.