Page 19 of Violent Possession

He leaves, closing the door with the care of someone who doesn’t want to make a sound. I’m left alone, with my fucked-up shoulder, the bloody prosthesis on the floor, and the certainty that Marcus is a coward.

I try to assess the damage. The stump is torn enough to get infected if I don’t dress it properly. The carbon fiber is chipped and exposed, but the socket can probably take another couple of fights if I wrap it with electrical tape. It’s not the first time the prosthesis has fucked me over more than it’s saved me.

My head is spinning. Blood loss. I close my eyes, listen to the echo of the crowd outside, the vibration of the audience trying to pull itself together.

I count Marcus’s time on the digital clock on the wall. The asshole is back in less than five minutes, with no bullet holes, carrying two thick manila envelopes.

“Twenty grand,” he says, holding one of the envelopes out to me. “Your appearance fee and the winner’s bonus. All here.” He stuffs the second envelope, visibly fatter, into the inner pocket of his jacket with a speed he thinks I don’t notice, as always. He knows I won’t count the bills now. Maybe not ever. “Karpov wasn’t even there. I bet he went to hire a hitman for us. We’d better lie low for an hour or two.”

It’s at that moment that someone knocks on the door.

Marcus freezes. “Shit.”

The door opens before he can say anything. A man in an impeccably cut black suit is standing in the doorway. He’s one of the ring’s security guards.

“Iron Arm,” the man says. “Come with us.”

Marcus tries to intervene. “What’s this about, pal? The guy’s hurt, he’s not going anywhere.”

The man in the suit ignores Marcus completely. “New accommodations have been arranged for the winner. And a doctor.”

My brain does the math: two at the door, one more possible in the hall. The mechanical arm is on the floor, impossible toput on without time and assistance. Left hand is decent, legs are good. If I run, I die. If I stay, maybe I will die slowly.

“We’re fine here, pal. You can dismiss them, we’re cool,” Marcus says.

I’m hard to kill. That’s what they always told me.

I get up slowly.

“Okay,” I say.

Marcus’s eyes go wide, looking deserted. He tries to pull me by the elbow, but doesn’t dare to hold on.

“What? You’re just going with them like this?”

“There’s a doctor, Marcus.” I show him the trickle of blood running down my arm. “You want me to die of an infection?”

The man in the suit steps to the side, giving me passage. I walk past him.

I payattention to the route. They’re not heading for the industrial zone, nor downtown. It seems like they’re driving in circles on purpose, waiting for something.

The man in the seat next to me keeps his hands crossed in his lap, calm, meditative. I could try to make a move. Maybe I’d break his neck, maybe I’d just get shot. Not the time.

The car finally stops. Two blocks from the arena, a hotel with a discreet facade, three stars, with a clerk on duty and a loud air conditioner.

The man takes an envelope from his pocket. “Room 307. The key is at the front desk under your name. A doctor will arrive in ten minutes. Do not leave the room.”

He gets out of the car. The other man opens my door.

I get out. They’re not dragging me or threatening me. Strange. They just watch me cross the lobby and get the key from the receptionist, who doesn’t even blink at my condition.

I get in the elevator. Then, into room 307. It’s an executive standard: king-size bed, clean carpet, a minibar with supermarket-brand vodka bottles.

If a hitman isn’t going to walk into this room in the next hour, I have no fucking idea what’s going on.

This silence—besides a cough from the next room—has a strange, viscous texture that seeps into the base of my skull. It makes me want to laugh. Silence, on this level, never comes for free.

I inspect the lock, the handle, the peephole. I test the handle three times, listening to the click. Who had the brilliant idea of giving me a room where the biggest danger is myself?