Leo’s left hamstring twitched. It had been repaired four times. The scar tissue was a map of his servitude.

Leo lowered his hands. “My mom sent me a letter. She said the dog died. I couldn’t feel it. The emotional dampeners they inject into our hypothalamus… I tried to cry. I just… produced saline.”

The crowd—the digital crowd, the screaming, paying, remote crowd—didn’t hear this. The microphones were tuned to filter out weakness.

They stood frozen, two perfect monsters in the center of the ring.