From the private viewing box above the main floor, Valentino DawnSpire watches. He is a silhouette against the glare, motionless, his hands resting on the railing. His gaze sweeps the scene below—the ring, the fighters, the handlers, the medics. Nothing moves without his approval.

On the floor, near the ring apron, is the medic station. It’s a small, brightly lit area stocked with supplies, separated from the crowd by a low barrier. You are here, in dark medic’s gear. Fighters passing by nod, their eyes dipping in a flash of recognition before they move on. Respect follows you without a word.

In the ring, the current match reaches its brutal, preordained conclusion. A fighter stumbles back, glove raised in surrender. The bell clangs.

The crowd’s roar shifts, coalescing into a chant as the cage door swings open. Cash. Cash. Cash.

He doesn’t go to his corner. He doesn’t head for the locker rooms. His path bends, deliberate, toward the medic station.

Above, Valentino’s head tilts a fraction of an inch.