Chapter 38. Cracked Foundations

The crowd sounded wrong.

Too clean. Too eager. The kind of noise that came from people who’d never bled for anything but still wanted to see someone else do it.

Lia rolled her shoulders, feeling the pull in her right side where the bruise hadn’t finished healing. The locker room smelled of antiseptic and sugar water. Fighters passed in and out—taped wrists, headphones, focus so thin it looked like prayer.

Her own hands shook when she tightened the wraps. She told herself it was adrenaline. She knew it wasn’t.

When she stepped into the corridor, the light shifted from the blue of the locker room to the cold white of the arena. Every sound sharpened—the slap of soles on rubber mats, the ring announcer’s voice cutting through the echo, gloves thudding against pads.

She kept her eyes forward.

It had been weeks since she’d fought under sanctioned lights. The underground circuit had been dim, close, humid with sweat and diesel fumes. Out there, she coul