Page 38 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

Armed men in dark suits flank the entrance—not Tony’s usual muscle. These move with military precision, eyes constantly scanning. I assume they’re the pharmaceutical companies’ security teams, already in position at the new venue.

Damian and I exchange worried glances. There’s no escape from this. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but Damian, at least for now, is worth his weight in gold. Me, I’m expendable. My last sight on this earth might just be the inside of one of these walk-in freezers.

Although Damian has no idea what I’m thinking, he clearly senses my rising panic. One look at the affection pouring from his gaze tells me all I need to know. Today, I might take my last breath, but I will do it knowing this honorable, ancient gladiator thinks I hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

Inside, the processing floor has been transformed into a fighting arena. Steel tables dragged away to make room for the cage, deadly looking hooks still dangling from overhead rails. The concrete floor shows dark stains that might be old blood, perhaps animal, perhaps human.

“Your corner’s over there.” Marco points to a makeshift prep area near a heavy metal door marked “Cold Storage 3.” “First fight starts in twenty.”

The pharmaceutical executives arrive in waves, their expensive suits marking them as different as night and day against the regular raucous crowd. They cluster near the cage, tablets and phones ready to record every detail of their potential specimen.

“They’re watching you,” I murmur to Damian as I check his hand wraps. “Like vultures.”

“Let them watch.” His voice stays calm, but I feel the tension thrumming through him. “They will see only what we choose to show.”

Movement by the loading dock draws my attention. More corporate security filtering in, positioning themselves near exits. I count eight… ten… no, twelve armed men barely trying to look inconspicuous in their dark suits.

Tony arrives with his entourage, immediately pulling Marco aside. Their heated whispers carry hints of urgency. Something’s made them nervous. Since they’ve effectively eliminated any threat from Laura and the gladiators, it must be something beyond our intercepted phone call.

Two fighters from rival gyms cross paths near the betting tables. Words are exchanged, shoulders bump. Their teams move closer, tension crackling. It’s normal pre-fight testosterone, but in this pressure-cooker atmosphere…

“First fight!” Tony’s voice booms through speakers mounted on the processing line rails. “Place your final bets!”

Damian watches everything with a predator’s focus—the armed men by the exits, the corporate security’s movements, the growing friction between rival fighters. His expression gives nothing away, but I know he’s mapping escape routes, analyzing threats, preparing for whatever comes. It’s so different from the gentle philosopher who shares my bed at night.

He leans closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. “Three men at the main entrance. Two by the large metal gate where we entered.” His warrior’s instincts from the arena are still sharp after two millennia. “But that small side passage near the red door…”

I follow his gaze to the narrow corridor he’s indicating. He’s right—just one pharmaceutical security guy stands there, looking bored and distracted by the growing tension in the room.

“You’re up third,” I tell him, but we both know reaching his fight isn’t guaranteed. Not with pharmaceutical mercenaries itching to grab him and Tony’s men watching our every move.

The first fighters enter the cage as I scan the crowd one last time, hoping against hope to spot Laura or one of the other gladiators. But there’s no rescue coming. We’re on our own.

The bell rings. The fight begins. And somewhere in this frozen hell of steel and concrete, our chance for escape waits to be seized.

If we survive that long.

Chapter Thirty

Damian

Blood and sand. That’s what combat should smell like. Not this sharp tang that burns my nostrils despite being mingled with the smell of unwashed bodies. Two fights have passed while I warm up, studying our enemies through lowered eyes—a gladiator’s trick for observing without being obvious.

The corporate guards move like Roman auxiliaries, disciplined and coordinated. They’re closing their ring slowly, professional soldiers playing a game of position and patience. More dangerous than Tony’s thugs, who posture like common arena guards.

Maya tenses beside me, her fighter’s instincts as sharp as any gladiator’s. She’s watching the betting tables where Rico’s men circle Tony’s champion like wolves testing a rival pack. The air carries that familiar charge—the moment before violence erupts.

I catch her eye and nod subtly toward the sole guard at the small passage. He keeps glancing at the heated argument at the betting tables, hand hovering near his weapon. Already distracted. Already forgetting us.

Words are exchanged. Challenges. Taunts. The first blow catches the champion’s jaw.

The room transforms instantly—I’ve seen this in a dozen arena riots. It seems oddly familiar despite the passage of time. Rico’s men surge forward. Security guards rush to separate the two factions. The lone guard at the passage doorway abandons his post, drawn to the immediate threat.

The door to the passage stands momentarily unguarded. A gap in their defenses, just as when the tall Thracian who was favored to beat me left his flank exposed in the third round of the Saturnalia games.

“Move!” Maya’s hand finds my arm. Her eyes flick toward the metal door, which is now completely unguarded as the corporate soldiers rush to contain the brawl.

We slip through the crowd, using the chaos as cover. Just as we reach the door, a sharp voice cuts through the noise.

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