The stadium was buzzing.
Not hyped. Not excited. It was the type of noise that felt pointed—directed.
Amari stood in the center of the arena, calm, composed, his chains resting lightly on his shoulders. Across from him, Ivy Marcellus grinned like he was already holding the win in his back pocket.
The announcer's voice echoed faint through the arena walls:
> "MATCH FOUR—AMARI vs. IVY MARCELLUS!"
Whispers swirled instantly.
> "Ivy's got this. One of the favourites to win the whole thing."
> "That guy's speed? Different level."
> "Why's Amari even here? He doesn't even have an Unco."
Ivy soaked it in.
Smirking, he leaned forward a little, just loud enough for the closest sections to hear.
"You hear them?" he said, eyes locked on Amari. "That's what belief sounds like. That's what it sounds like when people know you're about to win."
Amari didn't move.
