Elara released the hold and stood up. The arena was dead silent, much like Mac's gym had
been weeks prior. She looked up at Marcus's VIP box. She raised a single finger, pointing at
him, then dragged her thumb across her throat—the universal sign that they were done.
She left the cage without waiting for the referee to raise her hand. She had honored her
forced contract. She had protected her friends.
The next day, Elara packed a single duffel bag. She left a note and a large stack of cash—her
winnings—on Mac's desk. The Forty-Five Second Phantom was gone again, fading back into
the shadows, a legend whispered in gyms across the country, a reminder that the most
dangerous fighters are often the quietest ones in the room.