The arena was quiet again.
Not the kind of peaceful quiet—but the kind that makes your chest feel heavy like the air itself doesn't want to move.
Lucas was still on the floor, completely out. His arms and legs lay limp, his head tilted slightly to the side, lips slightly parted.
If you didn't see the slow rise and fall of his chest, you might think he was gone. Not dead, just… hollow.
Whatever he had seen in that illusion, it had taken the fight out of him completely.
And Mr. Grayson?
Gone.
But the memory of his voice still lingered in the air like poison. His twisted words. His obsession.
His desperation. None of it had disappeared. It hung over the arena like a bad smell that wouldn't go away.
And yet, the room wasn't truly empty.
There was someone else.
Someone who'd been there the entire time.
The far back corner of the arena—hidden in deep shadow—rippled. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a quiet change, like a curtain being pulled back without a sound.
