Martin spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the files and resumes of the 108 employees selected by Maria. His study, illuminated by the warm glow of his desk lamp, felt both familiar and comfortable as he read through each profile with a sharp eye.
Lucia had placed her trust in her mother's judgment, but Martin knew better than to allow anyone—no matter how competent or respected—to steer his company without his approval.
He took his time reviewing each candidate, paying close attention to their professional histories, their past failures, and successes.
Those who had experienced significant stumbles in their careers stood out to Martin.
These were people who had tasted failure but kept pushing forward. They understood the stakes and would be more cautious, pragmatic even, compared to the ones who had only known success.
For those candidates, Martin penciled in leadership roles, assigning them as department heads. The ones with a more consistent and unblemished track record, he slotted into the deputy head positions.
He believed those who had a flawless career so far might lack the resilience to handle unforeseen challenges. By placing them as deputies, they would learn from the seasoned heads while also keeping them in check.
He wasn't going to allow anyone too much power, though. Each deputy would have veto power, limited to three times per month, allowing them to challenge and overrule decisions made by their superiors.
This would foster a culture of debate and accountability while preventing a dictatorship in any department. Performance reviews would be conducted bi-annually, keeping everyone on their toes.
Promotions or demotions would follow based on efficiency, decision-making, and results.
Satisfied with the notes he left on each resume, Martin leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He glanced out the window—darkness had already fallen, and the soft hum of the night filled the air.
The day had slipped away while he was buried in paperwork, but there was still something left to do.
The underground MMA arena. The invitation from the mysterious woman lingered in the back of his mind, intriguing him more than he cared to admit. It was time to take a dive into the underbelly of society.
The arena was tucked away near the shipment docks by the harbor, a convenient location for quick getaways in case things went sideways.
Martin stood, closing his laptop and tidying up the paperwork on his desk. He headed to his master bedroom, changing into an outfit that would blend with the urban streets—a black leather jacket, a matching cap pulled low over his eyes, and dark brown boots.
The look was simple, but inconspicuous. He didn't want to draw attention to himself tonight.
As he fastened his jacket and grabbed his car keys, he left a note of instructions for the staff. Martin had no plans of returning home until late, if at all. His head butler and staff knew better than to ask questions, but he still felt it prudent to leave behind a brief message.
With everything in place, Martin exited the villa and slid into the driver's seat of his car. The engine purred to life as he navigated out of the high-end residential district and merged onto the quiet roads leading into the heart of the city.
His thoughts were sharp, and his anticipation high. He wasn't heading into the unknown recklessly—this was a calculated risk, another step toward gaining a deeper understanding of the shadows that ran through the veins of the city.
The closer he got to the harbor, the fewer streetlights illuminated his path. Soon, only the dim glow of the docks and the cold light of the moon remained, guiding him toward his destination.
The underground arena awaited.
The world beneath the city was a place unto itself—a lawless underground society thriving on violence, gambling, and raw human instinct. It wasn't the kind of place one stumbled upon by accident, but a hidden world that operated with the precision and order of those who controlled it.
The entrance to the underground MMA arena was inconspicuous, nestled between rundown warehouses near the harbor. A heavy iron door marked the entrance, guarded by stern-faced bouncers who sized up every entrant with cold, calculating eyes.
As Martin approached, he noticed the strict supervision in place. No one entered without undergoing rigorous checks. The first step was the inquiry of age, ensuring no minors stumbled into this blood-soaked arena. Next came the signing of a waiver, legal in its own twisted sense.
A hastily printed document was thrust into Martin's hands, demanding his signature, time, and date. The waiver stipulated a 12-hour window from 10 PM to 10 AM—the duration of his protection under the arena's unwritten laws. Within that period, any injuries or death were at his own risk.
With the paperwork signed, Martin was escorted through the next checkpoint, where two guards—built like walls of muscle—scanned him for any signs of law enforcement.
His documents and ID were inspected for legitimacy, and the guards scrutinized his face for any signs of deceit. Satisfied with his civilian status, they proceeded with a full-body search, checking for hidden surveillance devices or listening taps.
Finally, one of the guards stamped the back of Martin's hand with a temporary tattoo—an intricate design that glowed faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights.
It served as a stamp of approval, marking him as a guest of the underground world.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The low hum of machinery from the shipping docks blended with the cacophony of cheers, curses, and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting steel.
The sea breeze blew in through open containers stacked haphazardly around the area, creating a stark contrast between the raw human violence below and the vast, open ocean just beyond.
The arena was nothing more than a steel cage suspended in the air, where fighters—both seasoned veterans and eager rookies—clashed in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Blood splattered against the steel mesh, and the crowd roared with every hit.
It was a place where money flowed like water—bets placed in real-time, fortunes won and lost in the blink of an eye.
ATM machines and accountants were stationed in the corner, discreetly allowing participants to withdraw money, transfer funds, or place their bets. A digital board listed the evening's lineup of fighters, their odds, and their stats. It was as organized as any high-stakes casino, yet beneath the surface lay an undeniable tension—the promise of violence at every turn.
If one wanted to join in as a fighter or back a rookie, it could all be arranged through the right connections.
As Martin moved through the checkpoints, he couldn't help but notice the heavy-duty trucks unloading containers nearby. These weren't ordinary shipments but part of the spectacle itself.
The trucks cleared a wide-open area with the sea as a backdrop, ensuring that all eyes were on the steel cage hanging in the air. Inside, fights raged on, with fists, feet, and crude weapons clashing as men and women fought for survival, glory, or cold hard cash.
Some were here to prove something; others were simply killers, taking part in the violence for the pure thrill.
Luckily, the strict supervision at the entrance ensured no firearms made it past the checkpoint. All conflicts were restricted to melee and cold weapons.
Even then, security guards occasionally intervened when tensions ran too high, reminding the fighters to hold off on killing each other until the real money was on the line.
There was a time and place for everything, and in the underground arena, profit was king.
Martin's phone buzzed in his pocket, drawing him out of his silent observation. A text from the Mystery Agent appeared on his screen:
"Are you there yet? If you are, let's meet up. I'll introduce you to some people."
Martin smirked at the message. This world was new to him, but it didn't feel as foreign as he thought it might. He was already here, deep in the underbelly of society.
It was time to see just how far down the rabbit hole went.