They moved me at dawn.
No warning. No discussion. Just a message sent to my phone at five thirty in the morning with an address and a pickup time that gave me exactly twenty minutes to decide what mattered enough to carry.
"Pack lightly," he had said.
I learned quickly that this was not advice. It was a test.
I left most of my apartment untouched. The couch I had bought secondhand. The dishes I never finished unpacking. The empty corners where trophies used to sit. None of it was mine anymore. Not really.
I packed clothes suitable for training, my wraps, my shoes, and a small notebook I had carried since my first amateur fight. Habit again. Proof that some things survived every purge.
At six sharp, a black car idled at the curb.
The driver did not introduce himself. He took my single bag without comment and opened the door. The inside of the car smelled neutral, like nothing had ever happened there. No music played. No questions were asked.
The city slid past the window as we drove farther than I expected. Away from crowded districts. Away from familiarity. By the time we turned off the main road, my phone had lost signal.
I noticed. I said nothing.
The facility appeared without announcement. Concrete and glass set back from the road, shielded by tall fencing and deliberate landscaping that suggested privacy rather than comfort.
Containment, not luxury.
Security checked my identification against a tablet, then waved us through. Gates closed behind us with quiet finality.
Inside, the building was cleaner than any gym I had trained in before. White walls. Polished floors. Controlled lighting. Everything is designed to reduce distraction.
A woman met me at the entrance. Not the one from the arena. Older. Sharper.
"Your name is still Iria Vale here," she said. "But it does not leave this property."
"I did not plan to," I replied.
She studied me briefly, as if deciding whether that was defiance or discipline.
"Good," she said. "I am Mara. I manage compliance."
Of course she did.
She handed me a tablet.
"Schedule," she continued. "Medical evaluation this morning. Conditioning assessment this afternoon. No training until clearance is given."
"And if I disagree."
She looked at me evenly. "Then you do not train."
That was Rule Four in action. Medical compliance. No exceptions.
"Follow me."
My accommodation was not a room. It was a unit.
Bedroom. Bathroom. Small sitting area. No personal touches. No windows that opened. Everything is functional, neutral, and easy to monitor.
There was a wardrobe already stocked with training gear. Identical sets. No choice in color or style.
"They anticipate my size," I said.
"They anticipate most things," Mara replied. "You will receive a stipend weekly. Meals are provided. You do not leave the facility without authorization."
"Rule Three," I murmured.
She paused at the door. "You read carefully."
"I survive carefully."
Her mouth twitched, almost approving.
"Medical in ten minutes," she said. "Be punctual."
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
I stood still for a moment, listening.
No sound of traffic. No distant voices. Just the faint hum of a building that never truly slept.
I changed quickly and followed the signs to the medical wing.
They ran me through everything. Bloodwork. Imaging. Strength tests. Reaction drills. The doctor did not smile. He did not ask how I felt. He watched numbers populate screens and made notes without commentary.
"You have not stopped training," he said eventually.
"No."
"Good," he replied, as if that settled something.
By midday, I was cleared for limited activity.
Limited.
The word sat wrong in my chest.
The training floor was vast. Mats. Bags. Equipment arranged with surgical precision. Other fighters moved through drills in silence, each absorbed in their own work. No one looked at me twice.
That was intentional too.
A trainer approached. Tall. Broad. No wasted motion.
"I am Len," he said. "I handle conditioning."
"Iria."
"I know."
He handed me a jump rope. "Warm up."
No welcome. No curiosity. Just expectation.
I worked until sweat soaked through the provided gear. Until my lungs burned and my muscles sang with the familiar ache of use. The restraint chafed worse than the exertion.
When I reached for the heavy bag, Len shook his head.
"Not today."
"I am cleared."
"For limited," he reminded me. "Follow the program."
Control again. Layered. Quiet.
I stepped back.
Across the room, I felt it before I saw him.
Kade stood near the observation deck above the floor, hands resting on the railing. He had not announced himself. He rarely would.
Our eyes met briefly.
No nod. No acknowledgment.
Just confirmation that he was watching.
The afternoon ended without incident. No sparring. No cages. Just preparation stripped of spectacle.
That evening, I was escorted back to my unit. Dinner waited on the table. Balanced. Measured. Efficient.
I ate alone.
Later, I reviewed the contract again. Not because I needed reminding, but because understanding the structure was the only way to test its limits.
Exclusive competition rights. Silence. Assigned housing. Performance.
Nothing in it said I could not observe.
Nothing said I could not plan.
Two days later, the first test came.
I was midway through conditioning when Mara approached the mat.
"Kade wants to see you," she said.
"Now."
Not a request.
He was in the same conference room as before. The glass table. The screens. Familiar territory already.
"You settled," he said.
"I am contained," I replied.
A faint shift in his expression. Amusement, maybe.
"You have not violated the terms," he said. "That matters."
"I have not been given the chance."
He slid a tablet toward me.
"Your first opponent," he said. "Seven days."
The name meant nothing to me.
The statistics did.
Aggressive. Durable. Experienced in close quarters.
"You are easing me in," I said.
"No," he replied. "I am measuring you."
"For what?"
"For how you respond when the rules tighten."
I looked up. "You enjoy control."
"I require predictability."
"Those are not the same."
"They overlap," he said.
I handed the tablet back.
"I will need footage," I said. "Full fights. Not highlights."
"Already uploaded."
"Medical history."
"Redacted where necessary."
I held his gaze. "I will not fight blind."
"You will fight prepared," he corrected. "That is the advantage of being here."
I stood.
"One more thing," I added. "My silence."
"Yes."
"It does not mean obedience in private."
He considered that.
"No," he agreed. "It does not."
For the first time since I arrived, something like respect passed between us. Not warmth. Not trust.
Recognition.
As I left, the noise of the arena echoed faintly through the walls. Distant. Controlled. Waiting.
Seven days.
Under his rules.
But every structure had stress points.
And I had never been good at breaking quietly.