Vera vanished before the first light.
A four-hour marathon of sifting through her amassed intel on Rael had consumed her evening a chaotic, unfiltered pile of it all. Documents strewn across the kitchen table, photographs, printed archives that should have been off-limits, scribbled notes in her distinct, slightly uphill handwriting, as though each word was trying to ascend towards something.
Rof was there, listening. He'd inquire when clarification was needed, and fall silent when the information demanded space to breathe. By the small hours of the morning, he had pieced together a hazy image of Conrad Rael. It was far from complete, but it wasn't a formless blur anymore.
Rael wasn't the mastermind; that much was clear.
He was the successor. E. Voss was the one who had conceived and built Nullpoint. He designed it, recruited the children, and ran the program. Rael entered the picture in the final stage, armed with capital, infrastructure, and the sharp ambition of a man who recognized the value of things better than their creators. There had been a transaction of some sort, but whether it was consensual or forced, Vera had yet to discover.
One thing she was certain of, was Rael's two decades of patient waiting. A patience that only the truly wealthy can afford. He kept a watchful eye on the twelve subjects from a distance, waiting for the moment of activation.
Rof was the first to trigger.
That was his current predicament.
He was the first outcome, which meant that Rael's subsequent moves would be dictated by Rof's actions in the ring.
After Vera's departure, he managed to catch two hours of genuine sleep, the kind Manny had prescribed. By five-thirty, he was braving the cold, making his way to Carpenter Street.
Bellows was already there, waiting outside the gym.
This was unexpected. Bellows wasn't the kind to rise early, nor did he frequent basement gyms on Carpenter Street he had no business knowing this address. Besides, in Rof's experience, Bellows didn't wait for people; people waited for Bellows.
He stood by the door, draped in a coat that cost more than Rof's monthly bills. The unlit cigar was back. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days but had come to terms with that reality about three days prior.
Rof halted before him.
"How do you know this address," Rof demanded. It wasn't a question.
"I know every address in this city that has any significance," Bellows replied. He studied Rof's face. "You look refreshed. Good. You'll need all the energy for what I'm about to share."
"I didn't sign the contract."
"I don't give a damn about the contract right now." Bellows' tone was of a man relieved to unload a burden. "Can we step inside?"
Manny let them in without a word. His glance at Bellows was as it was with most things a quick, thorough assessment, conclusion drawn, face neutral. He arranged two stools near the ring, placed water on the foldable table, then retreated to the far end of the gym with a bag he began to methodically wrap. He was giving them their space, without actually leaving.
Bellows took a seat, resting the unlit cigar on his knee.
"Eight months ago, I needed some capital," he began, speaking with the briskness of a man who had decided to share something and just needed to push through it. "The bracket was expanding. New venues, new cities, serious money changing serious hands. I needed a backer whose reputation wouldn't attract the wrong kind of attention."
"Who did you approach," Rof asked.
Bellows dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. It was as though the answer was just a trivial detail. "An old-money family. East coast. The kind that's been wealthy for so long that the money ceased having an origin and just became a state of being." He twiddled the cigar. "People I know label them as devils, but all rich families get that reputation eventually. I didn't think much of it. Accepted their capital. The bracket grew exactly as they had predicted." He paused. "That part should've raised a red flag. When everything unfolds just as someone has predicted without a single surprise that's not good planning. That's someone who already had the endgame figured out."
He shared this as casually as one would talk about the weather. No theatrics, just an offhand detail that had been gnawing at him, which now found its way out alongside the main issue.
Rof didn't press further. He filed it away in his mind deep, quiet, patient.
"What are you here to tell me," Rof asked.
Bellows met his gaze. "Two days ago, I got a call. A woman from that same circle. Extremely polite. She said her exact words 'tell Leon to focus on his fights and not get distracted.'" He rolled the cigar between his fingers. "That was all. Like a gentle reminder. Like someone making sure a clock keeps ticking."
The gym fell silent.
Manny had stopped moving at the far end.
"Why are you telling me this," Rof asked.
Bellows rose to his feet, buttoning his coat. He glanced at his hands, as if they owed him something he had already given up on.
"Because I put you in that ring," he admitted. "Without full disclosure. You came to me to make enough money to save your father from slaving away at a factory, and I accepted your entry fee knowing all that, and I still put you in." He picked up the cigar. "Even I have my limits."
He looked at Rof one last time. At the cross visible on his chest. At the surrounding gym. At Manny at the far end.
"Fight Okon," he instructed. "Whatever follows I want no part in it."
He ascended the stairs.
His footsteps echoed on the metal. The door. Then silence.
Manny sauntered back, standing next to the ring. He looked at the staircase, expressionless.
Rof sat on the stool.
He pondered over a woman's polite reminder, old money that had lost its origins, a bracket that had grown exactly as someone had foretold.
He mulled over it for precisely the right duration.
Then he got up.
"Guard," he muttered to himself.
Manny glanced at him.
"I know," Manny responded. "I was about to say the same thing."
They got to work.