"You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered. "Why take a five-to-one bet?"

The Grappler lunged, trying to take the fight to the floor, but Viktor caught him in a clinch, using the man as a human shield against the brothers' strikes. With a sharp twist, he sent the Grappler into the corner post.

As Viktor walked out of the ring, bruised and bloodied, the promoter approached him with a stack of bills.

Finally, there was only The Ghost. He was fresh, having waited for his moment. He pulled a concealed blade—a violation of the Red Circle rules. The crowd gasped, but the referee, paid off by the house, looked away.

For the first three minutes, Viktor didn't strike. He danced. He used the brothers' momentum against each other, staying on the periphery, making the Five trip over their own shadows. He was "buying time," letting the adrenaline dump wear them out.

At the four-minute mark, the Boxer overextended. Viktor stepped inside the guard, a blur of motion. One strike to the solar plexus, one to the jaw. The Boxer folded. Four left.

The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco. This was the "Red Circle," a high-stakes underground arena where disputes were settled not by lawyers, but by stamina.