It was still early in the morning, but there was already a massive crowd in front of the underground betting shops. The guys were all bundled up in their coats, clutching their credits like they were already holding the winning ticket.
On every wall, you could see the same two faces: Nash jumping in the air and Seth, seen from behind, with the kind of look that tells you immediately that things are going to end badly. Someone had even spray-painted a poster: THE BEAST VS THE EMPEROR. Nobody bothered to scrub it off; it was like everyone had already acknowledged the nicknames.
Even the guy selling skewers had doubled his prices. Nobody complained. When the atmosphere is this electric, you don't argue about the price of chicken, you just pay and shut up.
Meanwhile, over at the Falcons' training ground, practice had just wrapped up. Everyone was slumped on the benches, completely wiped out and drenched in sweat.
