At four o'clock in the morning, the lights in the Arena were still on, flickering on and off, like a dying breath. Jiang Jin squatted in the middle of the floor, wrapping his fingers in a towel and wiping the dust from the cracks in the bricks. The sweat stains have dried and become wet, and have become wet and dry again. The cuffs have become frayed, and the scar on the left wrist glows with old silver under the light.
