One million dollars. The words cut through the underground arena like a death sentence.

The transition from the violent underworld arena to a cramped, dilapidated apartment on the west side of the city felt like waking up from a fever dream.

Leo Doyle dropped the heavy briefcase of cash onto the scuffed laminate kitchen table with a dull thud. The stacks of hundred-dollar bills spilled slightly out of the open lid, casting a pale, unnatural green glow across the peeling wallpaper of their tiny living room. Leo ran both hands through his hair, pacing frantically back and forth across the narrow floorboards, his boots creaking with every step.

"Maisie, do you have any idea what we just walked into?" Leo muttered, his voice laced with panic as he glanced toward the hallway. "That wasn't just a regular underground dogfight. That was Julian Hart. The ghost of the eastern syndicate. Men like that don't just hand out million-dollar checks and walk away. There's always a string attached. Always!"

In the center of the living room, Cyrus was lying flat on his stomach, completely relaxed, his massive golden-brown coat gleaming under the dim light of the single overhead bulb. The German Shepherd looked entirely different away from the steel cage and the screaming crowds. His wild, frantic energy had melted away, replaced by a quiet, watchful calm. Every time Maisie moved across the room, Cyrus’s ears twitched to track her steps, acting as a living, breathing shadow.

Maisie sat on the worn-out sofa, meticulously folding a small blanket. "He didn't hurt us, Leo."

"Not yet!" Leo snapped, stopping his pacing to throw his hands up in exasperation. "He gave us enough money to buy this entire apartment building ten times over, and he gave us the most dangerous fighting dog in the city. People like Julian Hart don't do favors out of the goodness of their hearts. They collect debts. And when they come to collect, it's usually paid in blood."

Before Leo could continue his frantic rant, a sharp, metallic sound cut through the quiet apartment.

*Click.*

It wasn't the sound of the front door latching. It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of a heavy-duty bolt cutter slicing through the padlock on the external security gate downstairs in the alleyway.

Leo froze mid-sentence. His blood ran cold. The color drained entirely from his face. He slowly backed away from the window, his hand instinctively dropping toward the heavy iron wrench he kept tucked behind the kitchen counter for emergencies.