"Look, boss—he's actually threatening us," one of Andrew's followers laughed, "even though he knows he can't win."
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Why don't we remind him who decides things around here?"
Andrew rolled his neck slowly to one side until it cracked, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "No need for all of you to pile on. It's been a while since I had any real fun. This is going to take a little time… and I want him to feel every second of it."
One of the boys started to answer, still grinning—then a loose brick tore through the air with shocking speed. It struck him square in the face. Cartilage crunched. Blood erupted from his nose as he dropped hard onto the packed earth, clutching his face and howling.
Jason's voice was calm, almost polite. "Sorry, gentlemen. I don't have time to stand around while my mother is waiting. You'll have to entertain yourselves without me."
He was already turning, already running, cutting sharply down a narrower side path that angled away from the main route back to the outer camps.
"After him!" Andrew roared.
The chase exploded through the thinning market. Jason weaved between the last open stalls, vaulted a low cart, and slipped between two closing awnings. Behind him came the heavy slap of boots and angry shouts. He cut left, then right, trying to use the maze of alleys and storage sheds the way a rabbit uses undergrowth. It did not matter. Andrew's group knew these paths as well as he did—better, in some cases.
*They're spreading out,* the bracelet observed coldly inside his mind. *They're going to cut you off.*
Jason already felt it. Two of the boys peeled away down parallel lanes. When he burst out of a narrow gap between two storage huts, one of them was already waiting, arms spread, forcing him to skid to a halt. A second later Andrew and the remaining follower arrived from behind, boxing him in.
Andrew was breathing harder than usual, but the smile had returned. "I have to admit—you're faster than you used to be. For someone at your level, that was almost impressive. Unfortunately for you, making me run this far comes with consequences."
Jason's fists tightened at his sides. "I still don't want to fight you, Andrew. Just let me through."
Andrew's expression flattened. "You're still saying that? At this point?"
He exploded forward, right fist already driving toward Jason's face.
Jason sidestepped. The punch whistled past his ear. Andrew followed immediately with a low kick; Jason hopped back, letting the boot skim the air where his knee had been. In the brief opening that followed he stepped in and drove his own fist hard into Andrew's stomach.
The impact was solid. Andrew's breath left him in a sharp, involuntary grunt. He folded, dropped to one knee, then rolled onto his side, arms wrapped around his midsection. For a few precious seconds he stayed there, face twisted.
Jason felt a fierce, almost dizzying surge of satisfaction. *I finally made him feel it.*
It lasted less than twenty heartbeats.
Andrew pushed himself up, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, and laughed—a short, delighted sound. "That was fun. So you really did break through. Good. Now I don't have to hold back as much. Wouldn't want to accidentally cripple you before the tournament, after all."
One of his followers chuckled. "Boss was just testing him. Letting the little mutt think he'd actually done something."
The laughter from the others was soft and mocking. Something hot and ugly flared behind Jason's eyes. He lunged again, throwing another punch with everything the fourth layer could give him.
Andrew caught the fist in one open hand as though he were snatching a thrown fruit. His grip was iron. Jason tried to pull free and failed.
"You may have stepped up a layer," Andrew said quietly, almost kindly, "but the gap is still there. You're still not my match."
Then the beating began in earnest.
Andrew's free fist hammered into Jason's ribs, his solar plexus, the side of his face. Each blow landed with clinical precision—hard enough to hurt deeply, calculated enough not to break bone. Jason's vision doubled. Copper flooded his mouth. He tried to twist free, tried to kick, but the grip on his wrist never loosened. Only when Andrew decided he had taken enough did the older boy release him.
Jason dropped to one knee, then both, breathing in ragged pulls. Blood ran freely from his nose and the corner of his mouth.
Andrew looked down at him for a moment, satisfied, then turned away. "That's better. Do be kind enough to come find me again when you want another lesson."
His followers fell in behind him, still laughing, and the four of them disappeared down the path toward the inner Fox compounds.
Jason stayed on the ground until their footsteps faded. Then he pushed himself upright, wiped the worst of the blood from his face with his sleeve, and stared after them with cold, burning eyes.
"Just wait, Andrew," he said aloud, voice low and raw. "I'm going to pay every bit of this back. And when that day comes, even if you beg, you won't get mercy."
*Give it a rest, kid,* the bracelet said inside his head. *The more you shout promises like that, the more likely they are to come looking for another round before you're ready. Focus on getting stronger first. Then you can call him out.*
Jason's jaw clenched. "I've had enough of being their punching bag. I need something to change. Winning the tournament—that's the first step. If I take one of those positions, even Andrew will have to look at me differently."
*You're still being delusional,* the bracelet replied, not unkindly. *Winning against the other outer-camp applicants will not automatically make you his equal. That punch you landed? It hurt him, yes—but only for a moment. You're both at the fourth layer now, yet the difference in foundation and resources is still obvious. Don't confuse one successful hit with true parity.*
Jason closed his hand into a tight fist until the knuckles whitened. "I believe I can close that gap."
He said nothing more. He simply turned and began the painful walk home, each step sending fresh spikes of protest through bruised ribs and a throbbing face.
---
Clara and Hannah were both waiting outside the tent when he appeared at the edge of the clearing. The moment they saw the darkening bruises, the split lip, and the blood still drying under his nose, Clara's expression tightened. She did not need to ask what had happened.
"Looks like those boys found him again," she murmured, almost to herself.
Hannah was already running. "Big brother—what happened to you?"
Jason managed a small, lopsided smile. "Don't worry. I'm fine."
"How can you say that when your nose is still bleeding?" Hannah demanded. She pulled a clean scrap of cloth from her sleeve and began gently wiping the blood away, her hands careful despite the anger and fear in her eyes.
"I'm all right," Jason repeated, softer this time. He gently moved past her, walked up to Clara, and placed the small bundle of herbs into her hands. Then, without another word, he ducked into the tent.
Hannah started to follow. Clara's hand settled lightly on her shoulder and stopped her. When Hannah looked up, her mother simply shook her head once—quiet, firm, and full of understanding.
Some wounds needed space before they could be spoken of.