Midnight. LAW Gym. Come alone.
You’ve been pretending you can run from who you are. But there are people here who still remember. You’ve made it this far by playing along — don’t stop now.
No names. No second chances.
The paper had a weight to it, heavier than it should’ve been — like it carried the gravity of something irreversible. Tomás folded it once, clean and square, and slid it into the pocket of his coat. He didn’t need a signature to know it wasn’t a bluff. Whoever wrote it knew too much, said too little, and said it just right. That was the worst kind of message.
It was raining by the time he stepped out, naturally. Midnight in Tokyo felt like the city had exhaled. All the noise, all the traffic, the neon, the lives lived in fast-forward — gone. The streets near the LAW facility were slick and quiet, lit only by scattered halogen and the orange of a broken vending machine across the lot. Tomás moved like a man who knew he was being watched, even if no one was there. The door to the gym gave its usual reluctant groan. He slipped inside.
The place was practically a ghost town. Just the hum of overhead fluorescents and the soft thud of his boots on the mat as he stepped in. The scent of sweat, rubber, and iron was faint but always there — like something that refused to leave even after the bodies had gone. Mirrors lined the walls, throwing his reflection back at him from a hundred angles, all of them equally unreadable. He looked good. That was part of the problem.
Midnight at the LAW gym meant empty benches, idle punching bags swaying in a current that didn’t exist, and an eerie kind of stillness. There was a chill in the air-conditioning, but it wasn’t cold. It was the kind of temperature that made you question if you were being prepared for something — or preserved. Tomás crossed the floor slowly, pacing the ring perimeter. He glanced toward the locker room hallway, the doors to the offices above, the corners where shadows liked to settle when no one was paying attention.
Nobody. Not yet.
He paused near the ring, resting his forearms on the apron, head bowed slightly, eyes scanning the far wall. His jaw was tight. Whatever had happened with Avery… it left a sour taste in his mouth that hadn’t gone away. And now this. Whoever sent the letter had done their homework. They knew how he operated. They knew how to get under his skin. Still, this stunk.
He straightened up and let out a breath through his nose, low and sharp. One more second here and he was walking. Screw it. Maybe it was a joke. Some cruel little rib from management, or worse — one of those so-called rookies trying to make a name for themselves by poking the bear. Except… this didn’t feel like a rookie move.
He glanced at the clock above the main doors: 12:03.
“You’re late,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and laced with caution.
He adjusted the cuffs of his short-sleeved compression shirt, showing the corded muscle of his forearms. Every instinct in his body was telling him to get out before this turned into a headline. But the weight in his gut said if you leave now, it gets worse. He looked around again — nothing. No footfalls. No whispers. Just the low mechanical hum of fluorescent tubes and the faint creak of a distant ventilation unit. His gaze settled on the ring.
He stepped forward, hands resting on the middle rope, his body lit in half-shadow by the overhead lights. His breath was even, but his pulse was sharp under the surface. This wasn’t a man afraid. This was a man ready. A man cornered. Whoever this was — whoever they really were — they had better be worth the trouble. Because Tomás Ferreira had enough secrets he was already paying for. He didn’t need another one knocking at the door under the cover of midnight.
And yet… he stayed.
