“I’m ready,” he said. “I’ll fight harder this time.”
“That’s the right answer, kid.” His boss pulled a chrome inhaler from his pocket. “We’re gonna start you off slow and work up to the good stuff.” He shook it while glancing at Kane’s chest. “And beef you up again. You undid all my hard work.”
Kane frowned at the silvery tube. What he really craved was the Gold, but he lifted his head from the pillow and strained forward, eager to take the mouthpiece between his lips. A few pumps later, energy flowed through his veins, charging his muscles and propelling him off the mattress into a long, arching stretch.
God, it felt good to move his body.
The drug didn’t give him a rush, but the simple absence of pain filled him with so much euphoria that his breath hitched and his eyes welled with tears. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. His boss had delivered him from hell, and Kane would never let him down again.
“Sure, kid,” the man muttered. “Now, come on. I want you back on the circuit in fifteen minutes.”
The night of the rematch, Kane was ready.
More or less.
Three days wasn’t long enough to replace all the bulk he’d lost, but the protein injections and circuit workouts had rounded his muscles and made them solid again. Most important, his boss had started giving him Gold—half strength at first, building gradually until a few hours ago, when he’d been allowed to bump up from the same inhaler as the other guys.
Drying out had given Kane an edge over the competition. He was still flying high from his last hit, punching the dorm bag as an outlet for his energy, while Cutter sat on the weight bench in the corner, grasping his knees and staring at the floor.
Kane looked away from his opponent and sank his fist into the bag. He had to focus on the equipment, to memorize its long, cylindrical shape and its cracked red surface, because that was what he would picture on the battle platform. Not a man. Just a bag.
“Time to suit up,” hollered the boss, tossing white bodysuits at them. Kane caught his easily, but Cutter’s reattached fingers hadn’t fully healed, and he fumbled with the fabric before grasping it in his opposite hand.
Not a man, Kane reminded himself. Just a bag.
He purposefully avoided Cutter while changing into his outfit, and when the time came for the three of them to leave the dorm, Kane kept the pace by his boss’s side, ahead of Cutter so he wouldn’t have to look at him. During the walk to the Vice Den, Kane distracted himself by counting the distant crashes of waves and observing the play of moonlight over the sand dunes. But that reminded him of the morning Cutter saved him from killing a guest, and Kane had to break the silence to end those thoughts.
“Is there a new maze tonight?” he asked his boss. He hoped so. His reflexes were quicker than the competition’s. If Cutter didn’t make it out of the maze, Kane wouldn’t have to kill him.
Guilt twisted his stomach. Had he really wished for Cutter to die?
“I need a bump,” Kane blurted before the boss had a chance to answer his question.
“You can have one at game time. And there’s no maze, just the final battle.”
Sweat beaded on Kane’s upper lip. “Please give me a hit now. All I need is—”
A rough slap to the face interrupted him. “Pull it together,” his boss warned. “This is the last chance for both of us. I swear if you blow this for me, I’ll make you dry out again before Zhang has you killed. Are we clear?”
Kane sobered at the memory of two weeks with no inhalers. “Yes, boss.”
They continued in silence until they reached the pit doors at the far end of the arena. Kane heard the crowd long before he saw their faces, a rumble of excitement that added to the anxiety building behind his ribs. As soon as he strode through the entrance, the stands erupted in deafening cheers, and he shielded his face with one hand.
The crowd blurred into a mass of waving arms as he glanced around the pit, which had completely changed since his last competition. The locker room was gone, as was the maze. The floor stretched open now, with the battle platform situated in the middle. The distance to the ring was the same, but the crowd seemed closer somehow. Too close. All that separated him from the bottom row of seats was the exterior maze wall, nine feet high and stretching around the perimeter of the pit.
From somewhere out of sight, the master of ceremonies called over the speakers, “I present to you our champions: Brock Cutter…and the Wolf!” At the mention of Kane’s nickname, the crowd lost their minds. He’d never hated them more than during that moment, as they howled for his opponent’s blood. “Our champions are strong and rested up, and ready to battle to the death in your honor!”
Honor. What a joke. There was no honor here.