At the center of the ring stood , a man whose face was a map of past mistakes. He wasn't there for the money; he was there for absolution. Across from him was The Ghost , a nameless fighter known for a fighting style that was more clinical than human.

The first crack came at midnight. Old Mr. Halverson, the handyman, stepped forward. His voice scraped out, “I saw the kid with the matches. That night. I didn’t stop him.” Gasps rippled. But Halverson shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I’m just a coward.” He stepped back. The circle tightened.

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