The night Saul gave the gym cleaner five minutes of life for humiliating his fighter, everyone mocked her mop and her gray uniform… unaware that Jenny was the missing Queen of boxing, a three-time world champion, ready to bring the Beast to his knees and destroy the underground network that had been pursuing her for ten years.

VIII. The House of the Smiths

Lloyd Smith lived in a mansion in the suburbs, although he no longer appeared in magazines.

The official world had expelled him, yes. But dirty money rarely disappears. It just changes its guise.

He organized underground fights in abandoned factories, private clubs, and basements with hidden cameras. Businessmen, criminals, and shameless washed-up boxers still gambled there.

His daughter, Keira Smith, visited him the same night Jenny's video went viral.

"It's her," he said, throwing his phone onto the table.

Lloyd looked at the screen.

For a second he didn't speak.

Then he smiled.

—I knew she was still alive.

—Why didn't we look for her before?

—We're looking for her. But good rats know how to hide.

Keira was twenty-seven years old and possessed an inherited rage. She had grown up hearing that Jenny had destroyed her family, stolen their empire, and turned her father into a king without a crown.

Nobody told him the other side of the story.

Nobody told him that that empire was sustained by rigged fights, threats, and young people turned into gambling fodder.

Families like that always raise their children with half-truths. And half-truths, when repeated often enough, can corrupt an entire life.

"I want to make her pay," Keira said.

Lloyd served whisky.

—Not only her. Her husband too.

—The delivery man?

—He's not a delivery driver.

Lloyd opened a folder. Inside was an old photograph of Owen in tactical gear.

—His name was Owen Hale. Special operations. Ten years ago, he sank an illegal oil pipeline in the Indian Ocean. That pipeline belonged to Soren Vukovic.

Keira frowned.

—The mercenary?

—The same one. His son died in that operation.

—So Soren wants blood too.

Lloyd raised his glass.

—This time we're not sending thugs. We're going to gather ghosts.

IX. The offer that smelled like a tomb

Jenny received the message two days later.

Come alone to Club Atlas. Midnight. If you call the police, your child's school will be the next scene.

He didn't tell Owen.

That was his mistake.

She did it for love, or so she said. Because love sometimes makes us foolish in a very noble way. We think that protecting someone means keeping them out of the fight. But when the fight comes knocking, keeping them out is condemning them to arrive too late.

Jenny dressed in black, tied her hair up, and left while Owen slept on the sofa, overcome by fever. He had spent the afternoon shivering, but he had still checked windows, locks, and escape routes.

She left him a note:

I'll be back before Tomás wakes up.

Lie.

Club Atlas was in an industrial building. From the outside it looked abandoned. Inside it glowed with red lights, artificial smoke, and stands full of rich people pretending to be wild.

Lloyd was waiting for her in the center of the cage.

Older. Thinner. Just as poisonous.

—Jenny Stride—he said, opening his arms.—The woman who thought she was cleaner than all of us.

Jenny looked around.

He recognized faces.

A promoter who had fled to Portugal.

A coach who sold defeats.

A former boxer who insulted her on television.

And Keira Smith, sitting next to her father, staring at her as if she were looking at a monster.

"I came to finish this," Jenny said.

Lloyd smiled.

—That's what we all say before starting a war.

—Stay away from my family.

—Your family exists because I let you breathe.

Jenny did not respond.

I had learned something over the years: some phrases are just meant to throw you off balance. Not all of them deserve a response.

Lloyd snapped his fingers.

Sisto Márquez, South American wrestling champion, entered, an enormous man with a bull's neck and an empty gaze.

"Five million if you break it," Lloyd announced.

The crowd roared.

Jenny took a deep breath.

I didn't want to fight.

But once again, as always, life didn't ask him.

X. The Queen against the bought men

Sisto attacked with confidence.

Too much.

Jenny dodged the first two punches, blocked the third, and landed a low kick that changed his demeanor. She wasn't trying to show off. Not anymore. At forty, you don't fight for applause. You fight to walk away.

Sisto retreated.

—Fast old woman.

—Slow young man.

The audience murmured.

Lloyd raised his hand.

Another fighter entered. Thai Dimas, known as the Devil of Bangkok. Shorter than Sisto, more dangerous. His elbows were marked from years of no-holds-barred fighting.

"Two against one," Jenny said. "Very brave."

Lloyd shrugged.

—Justice never filled stadiums.

That was one of his phrases. Empty, but well-dressed.

Jenny held on.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

His body began to feel heavy. He had been away for years. He cleaned floors, climbed stairs, carried bags, yes, but that wasn't the same as surviving two professionals paid to destroy him.

He was hit in the side and fell to one knee.

Keira leaned forward.

—Is that the great Queen?

Jenny placed her palm on the canvas.

And she thought of Thomas.

Not in titles.

Not in crowns.

In Tomás asking if a champion remained a champion after he stopped fighting.

He got up.

"I'm not queen of anything," she said, wiping the blood from her lip. "I'm a mother."

And that, sometimes, weighs more than any belt.

Sisto attacked again.

Jenny let him pass, spun on her heel, and launched him into Thai. The two collided. The crowd roared. Lloyd's smile vanished.

Then a voice was heard from the entrance.

—Leave my wife alone.

Jenny turned around.

Owen was there.

Pale with fever. Wearing a delivery man's jacket. Unarmed. Without an escort.

Only him.

"I told you not to come," she whispered.

Owen entered the cage.

—And I told you I wasn't going to leave you alone.

Lloyd clapped slowly.

—The heroic delivery man.

Soren Vukovic appeared behind him, dressed in gray, with the hard face of men who have confused loss with the right to destroy.

"No," Owen said.

Jenny understood immediately.

That was the ghost of her husband.

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