That night, Mateo called.

“Don’t call that number,” Leo warned.

Leo traced the signal. It bounced through six countries, then stopped. Local. Two blocks away. An abandoned textile mill.

“Too late,” the voice replied. “The contact is a contract. You’re in the ring now.”

The file wasn’t on any legitimate platform. No trailer. No reviews. Just a dark web whisper: “The fight isn’t staged. The purse is real. And the loser disappears.”