Bartwin himself greeted him the moment he opened his eyes. Around his chair, technical operators moved with mechanical precision, peeling away the clusters of complex biometric wire patches that had been plastered across his exposed, sweat-slicked chest.
One of Bartwin's eyes was completely milky, clouded by a thick cataract. It fixed on Ian with a razor-sharp, unnatural intensity, instantly throwing off Ian's focus. The mobster's mouth curled into a warm, deceptively kind smile, but the deadness in his eyes screamed an entirely different story. Bartwin's compact, diminutive frame barely reached Ian's shoulders, but the sheer, dominant weight of his aura was impossible to underestimate.
He was the kind of man who, if you accidentally nudged him on a crowded street, would ensure you lost your entire wrist on the spot.
As someone whose day job consisted entirely of picking pockets, Ian had a finely tuned radar for reading human character. And a man like Bartwin was a predator he would never target—EVER. Ian could flawlessly calculate ten moves ahead when outmaneuvering a digital Apex in the arena, but standing face-to-face with Bartwin felt like the only true dead end he had ever encountered.
One of the enforcers tossed Ian his clothes. He pulled them on, his eyes darting across the room via his periphery to map the layout. The chamber was dead quiet. The other captives who had been strapped to the surrounding beds before the simulation were completely gone, leaving him entirely alone.
"What? Looking for someone?" Bartwin asked, noticing the subtle shift in Ian's gaze. "Oh, you must be looking for old Ted. Tell me, do you have any sentimental attachments to him? Because if you don't, the incinerator is waiting. We're burning him with the rest of tonight's failures for the sake of overall austerity."
"Mm... No," Ian muttered smoothly. "But I do wonder if the rumors regarding the stakes are true. Is death in the game truly fatal?"
"Oh, I see you're curious. You want to know the internal mechanics of our little enterprise," Bartwin chuckled, stepping closer. "By the way, congratulations! That was an exceptionally enjoyable match! Aren't you considering a permanent career change? Surely scraping together a living as a petty street thief isn't your forever choice, is it? And that filthy sewer isn't exactly your dream home."
A dark grin played on Ian's lips. This damn Hyena has been tracking us from the very beginning. He analyzed the situation rapidly. Of course he needed a free player to exploit, and I'm the idiot who tripped directly into his snare. But how long has he been casting this bait? Did Roe know about this? Did Josh?
"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Bartwin," Ian pressed, keeping his voice level.
"Ha! You actually want to see the physical proof? Well, well, you really are an interesting creature. Most survivors couldn't care less—they just take their stuffed pockets and run straight home. Connor! Help our champion satisfy his curiosity!"
The mountain of a man standing in the shadows stepped forward. Connor possessed a terrifyingly fierce countenance, defined by a thick, long red mustache, matching sideburns, and a massive, hulking frame. He was Bartwin's shadow, sticking close to the mob boss wherever he went. Dragging Ian by the arm, Connor's face twisted into an expression of profound irritation—clearly annoyed at having to leave his master's side for even a moment. He hauled Ian out of the room by his collar, treating him like a high school principal dragging a delinquent teenager to detention.
Connor marched him ruthlessly through a network of bleak concrete hallways. Bright, buzzing industrial lighting exposed the grimy walls, while the thrum of heavy machinery and the bitter, acrid stench of industrial chemicals filled the air.
It looks like they drove us deep into a rural factory complex last night, Ian deduced, his mind cataloging every turn. But what kind of facility is this? And they have an administrative incinerator? Well, considering the bloody nature of Bartwin's ledger, it makes perfect sense. He needs a localized disposal system. This is where he brings the people who cross him. No wonder Bartwin's victims are never found by the feds.
His theories were confirmed the moment they crossed the threshold into the deepest quadrant of the facility—a massive, square concrete room dominated by an industrial incinerator and a heavy-duty industrial shredder. Three of Bartwin's workers were already mid-shift, casually hoisting a human corpse into the churning maw of the shredding machine. They paused, their mechanical movements halting when they noticed Connor's arrival. Nearby, arranged on cold steel gurneys, lay the lifeless bodies of the participants Ian had shared a room with just hours prior. Their faces matched his memory perfectly.
Ian drew himself up to his full height, violently tearing his collar away from Connor's grip. He calmly tidied his disheveled clothes and scanned the room for Ted's corpse. He wasn't looking to pay his respects or offer a sentimental goodbye; he needed absolute confirmation that the system wasn't a engineered illusion. Ted was his only anchor to reality.
He spotted Ted's body, which had been deliberately segregated on a separate gurney away from the others. Looking down at the old man's pale, unmoving face, Ian felt absolutely nothing. No grief, no regret. He reached out and lightly tugged the hem of Ted's trousers, catching sight of the jagged, improperly healed wound on his right leg. Yep. That's the old bastard, alright.
"Okay, I've seen enough. Where to next?" Ian turned, flashing a cheerful, nonchalant smile at Connor. The behemoth merely scowled, visibly repulsed by the kid's total lack of empathy.
Connor lunged to grab his collar again, but Ian deftly stepped out of reach. "Yeah, let's not do that again... Are we heading back to the operating room? Relax, I can find my own way." Whistling a casual tune, Ian flipped the dynamic, walking ahead of a brooding Connor as they traced their steps back to the main office.
Judging by the profound look of satisfaction on Bartwin's face earlier, Ian knew his performance in the arena wasn't just "enjoyable"—he had effectively transformed into a golden goose, a high-yield asset capable of driving massive luxury profits for the house.
Seeing the sheer volume of the prize money, Ian found himself deeply tempted. His analytical mind began to crunch the numbers. Aligning himself with Bartwin's syndicate could provide the financial leverage he needed to permanently escape the slums. It was the only viable path forward. This golden opportunity had wrapped itself inside a near-fatal nightmare. What a twisted stroke of irony.
But those simulation rigs... he needed to discover their origin and how to acquire them. Ian knew that as long as he played under Bartwin's umbrella, he would remain a glorified slave—and he was fundamentally not the type to take orders forever. From what he observed during the walk back, this facility served as the legitimate, legal front for Bartwin's empire. He passed several individuals dressed in sharp, corporate attire, all staring at terminal monitors with the exact same hollow, depressed expressions.
A factory by day, a high-stakes gambling hellhole by night, Ian concluded. The old scumbag really mastered the art of maximizing both worlds.
His steps slowed as he reached the heavy doors of the simulation room. Pausing, he meticulously smoothed down his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, ensuring his composure was flawless before stepping inside to face the kingpin once more.
"Well? Do you finally believe that the mortality rate of our little game is absolute?" Mr. Bartwin asked the moment Ian crossed the threshold.
"I do, Mr. Bartwin. I wouldn't dream of doubting your reach," Ian replied smoothly. "I was merely doubting my own cognitive faculties. You know how it is—the sheer rush of adrenaline in the arena tends to blur the boundary between the physical and the virtual."
"Cut the corporate nonsense," Bartwin barked, his demeanor instantly turning cold. "The million-pound reward you supposedly won has already been routed directly into my operational account. If you want to keep breathing—and keep playing—we need to talk about basic business parameters."
Greedy, parasitic bastard! Ian cursed internally. The money he lost from Roe was a mere fifteen thousand pounds, and he already clawed that back. Yet he's still withholding my actual reward. If this is how he runs his books, this loan shark isn't looking for partners; he's looking for disposable slaves.
"I want a fifty-fifty split," Ian blurted out, throwing his opening gambit onto the table.
"What?" Bartwin laughed harshly. "I was about to propose a ninety-ten split."
"Ninety percent for whom?"
"For me, you idiot. Do you honestly think running a multi-million-pound dark network is cheap?"
"Then we can consider this negotiation officially dead, Mr. Bartwin," Ian said, offering a tight smile. "It's been an absolute pleasure doing business with you."
Ian spun on his heel, preparing to walk, but a wall of heavy-set enforcers instantly stepped into his path, blocking the exit.
"Nobody walks out on a business proposition with me," Bartwin purred from behind him, "until I dismiss them first."
"Ah, my mistake. Please, after you, Mr. Bartwin..." Ian bowed elegantly, gesturing for the mob boss to lead the way out.
Without warning, one of the henchmen drove a brutal fist directly into Ian's unprotected stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs, forcing him to his knees as he coughed violently, clutching his throbbing midsection.
"Ninety-ten," Bartwin growled, stepping over him, "or you vanish from the face of this earth tonight."
"Hahaha..." Ian let out a strained, breathless laugh, the sudden amusement causing a deep frown to form across Bartwin's forehead.
"I know exactly what I am to you, Mr. Bartwin," Ian gasped, forcing himself back upright. "I am your most valuable asset on the ledger right now. I might not be the only player to survive a match, but find me another candidate who can captivate and entertain your elite audience the way I do. I am not just a player; I am an entertainer! So, start treating your premium assets with a little respect... You'd prefer it if my brain remained fully functional for the next match, wouldn't you?"
Bartwin stared at him, his milky eye assessing the kid's raw nerve. "Fine. What is your actual, reasonable counter-offer?" he demanded impatiently.
You greedy piece of trash, you're the one being completely unreasonable! Ian thought.
"Sixty-forty," Ian proposed aloud.
"Eighty-five, fifteen," Bartwin countered immediately.
"Sixty-five, thirty-five," Ian shot back.
"Eighty-twenty, and that is the absolute structural limit of my patience," Bartwin stated firmly, his voice cutting like glass. "You will not push me a single millimeter further, boy. I can always source another desperate candidate. Do not trick yourself into believing you are irreplaceable."
Ian locked eyes with the mobster, a sly, calculated grin spreading across his face. "Fine. Eighty-twenty... AND you provide me with an exclusive apartment in one of your high-end city flats. Do we have a deal?"
Bartwin clicked his tongue in profound annoyance. "Tsk! Fine. Deal."
Ian smirked, a wave of dark satisfaction washing over him. Let the old bastard use me for now. The twenty-percent cut from these matches still eclipses a full year of dangerous pickpocketing on the streets. At the very least, I can finally pull Roe and Josh out of the gutter with me. Besides, Roe can't exactly blame me for taking the fall for his stolen cash now, can he?
"Can I finally go home, Mr. Bartwin?" Ian asked, stretching his aching limbs. "Jesus... I'm completely exhausted, and I'm starving."
"Do not test your boundaries with me, boy. Connor! Remove this trash from my sight!" Bartwin commanded.
Once again, Connor grabbed him roughly by the collar, hauling him through the corridors toward the underground parking garage. The moment his feet left the floor, Ian simply closed his eyes and let himself go limp, drifting off to sleep. He hadn't been lying to Bartwin—he was entirely spent, and the real game was only just beginning.