Bagins came through the same door we had used, both arms already open, walking into the noise like a man stepping into warm water. The hard white lights from the high ceiling caught the edges of him and threw his shadow long across the concrete. The roar of the crowd folded around him and held.
He was so locked onto the crowd in front of him that he never once turned his head toward the four of us standing behind his own second. The bearded man's shoulders blocked part of the view. Bagins' face was lit from above, the expression already open, already performing.
"BAGINS."
"BAGINS."
The bearded man walked himself backwards in slow deliberate steps, opening the floor for his leader, and there was something practised in the way he did it—the measured retreat of a man who had rehearsed the distance. They had done this before. Tonight was not the first performance.
Bagins raised both hands and lowered them.
