Aren felt them before the alarms rang.
Not pressure.
Not suppression.
Direction.
Multiple vectors of intent pointing at the same place—him.
The mark on his wrist burned in pulses instead of waves. Each pulse carried a different signature, a different weight, like unseen hands knocking from far away.
His cell door opened without sound.
The woman stepped in quickly this time.
"You're being claimed," she said.
"Explained badly," Aren replied.
"Higher factions can file ownership on anomalies before January closes. If approved, they extract you."
"Alive?"
"If you're useful."
He stood. "And if I'm not?"
"They make you useful."
The pit trembled. Not from below—from above. Dust fell upward for half a second, then corrected.
"Too late," she whispered. "First claimant is already here."
The ceiling split without breaking.
A vertical line of white opened in the air, and a figure descended through it, wrapped in layered light like folded glass. No wings. No steps. Just controlled arrival.
Guards in the corridor dropped to their knees involuntarily.
"Registry anomaly located," the figure announced. "Transfer authorized."
The woman moved in front of Aren. "Authorization contested."
"By whom?"
"By outcome," she said.
The light-wrapped figure turned its featureless face toward Aren. "Demonstrate retained value," it said. "Or be collected as material."
Aren rolled his shoulders once.
"Everyone wants proof," he said quietly. "No one wants patience."
The air tightened.
The corridor stretched, reality making room for what came next.
This would not be an arena fight.
This would be a bidding war conducted with power instead of coin.
And Aren intended to raise the price.