"Ah—"
Liam's face met the floor.
His arm was behind his back at an angle that his arm had opinions about, Elena's knee in the center of his back, her weight distributed with the specific efficiency of someone who had learned to do this properly and had not forgotten.
"You're late," she said.
"I told you," Liam said, his cheek against the mat, the words slightly compressed by the position, "there was a reason—"
"I don't care about the reason," Elena said, the hold tightening by a degree. "Do you understand what they did? Do you understand why they matched you with Gage specifically?"
"I know—"
"They want you dead," she said. Her voice had not risen. That was somehow worse than if it had. "That is not a figure of speech. It is not arena language for a difficult match. They placed you against that specific fighter because they calculated that he ends you and they keep the optics of a legitimate fight." She pressed down slightly. "And it might work."
