Iron bars floated black against the night sky. Mihara sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out the window. The waterfront warehouse district. Rusted steel frames. Orange lights glowing in the distance. In this room with its exposed concrete walls, only the window connected to the outside world. But that window had bars fitted into it. She surveyed the room. One pipe bed. One mirror. A sink. That was all. The shared shower room was down the hall. A heavy bag sat in the corner of the room, its leather surface worn and tattered. The marks of someone pounding it for a long time. (Is this my place?) Mihara thought so. But it didn't feel like "mine." This belonged to the promotion. Three thousand yen was deducted from her earnings each month, and in exchange she was given the right to live in this room. She was free to go out—except the day before a match, when she was confined. Tomorrow was a match, so she couldn't leave tonight. And besides. What would happen if she left without permission? Mihara didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't get it out of her head. According to what she'd heard, a fighter who tried to escape never made it back to the ring. No one would give her the details. But here, such things happened as a matter of course. In the world above, this place didn't exist. That was underground pro wrestling. Mihara's gaze fell to her left wrist. A red cloth was wrapped around it. A thin cloth, a little worn. She wrapped it before every match. A good luck charm to come back alive from the ring. She couldn't remember when she'd started doing it. 　*　*　* Mihara's appearance stood out in this world. Height: one hundred seventy-four centimeters. Weight: fifty-eight kilograms. Slim, but with solid muscle in her arms and legs. Her black short bob hair had a slight natural wave, and on humid nights the curl became more pronounced. Her eyes were a deep brown, slightly upturned. Most people who saw her said, "You've got a tough-looking face." Actually, she was tough. Mihara thought so herself. Today she wore a black sports bra and black short pants. Her ring shoes were kicked off beside the bed. The day had ended with her still in her match clothes. Before coming here, Mihara used to go to Pier Seven every morning by herself. Ten minutes' walk from Galleria. An abandoned pier with rusted cranes and abandoned containers. That had been Mihara's training ground. No one came there. The sea breeze blew. The morning air was cold, and as she moved her body it gradually warmed up. Running. Shadow boxing. Pull-ups using the containers. Repeating. Repeating again. And repeating once more. No one was watching. No one was teaching her. Everything Mihara had learned—her speed, her reach—she'd built up at that pier. Striking that utilized her long one-hundred-seventy-four-centimeter arms. Quick movements that took the initiative before her opponent could step in. That was Mihara's style. She'd done it alone. It wasn't a choice. It was just the only thing she could do. ——That day flashed through her mind. Back at the fighting club. A teammate she'd trusted. That face. That moment. Mihara clenched her fist. Done. Don't think about it. The memory cut off sharply. Mihara looked up and stared at the wall of the room. 　*　*　* A flyer was taped to the wall. An old flyer. The edges were slightly curled. It showed a venue guide for an underground fighting promotion—"Galleria." A place in Tokyo's industrial waterfront district, a renovated abandoned warehouse known only among insiders by that name. It had no official name. It wasn't on any map. The stairs down were beyond the iron door at the back of the warehouse. The underground floor was five hundred square meters. One pro wrestling ring in the center. One hundred fifty folding chairs. Maximum capacity of two hundred including standing room. The VIP section was at the very back of the venue, in a slightly elevated area. Dimly lit, a place where faces weren't clearly visible. Five leather sofas. Drink service included. At the very bottom of the flyer, in small letters in the corner: 【Loser Disposal Included】 Her eyes couldn't leave those characters. Mihara knew the rules of underground pro wrestling. Matches were nearly rule-free. The fate of the loser was left to the audience or the promoter. Injuries were your own responsibility. Compensation ranged from thirty thousand yen to five hundred thousand yen per match. The stronger you were, the higher the pay. If you lost, it went down. And depending on how you lost——. Mihara looked away from the flyer. (If I fight fair and square, that's all that matters.) She told herself that. She wouldn't use dirty tricks. She'd fight straight. That was Mihara's way. She wouldn't bend on that. Never. But. Her left fist was gripping tightly without her noticing. She hadn't realized it herself. It wasn't until a while later, when she felt a throbbing pain, that she noticed. 　*　*　* Then the disposable cell phone vibrated. One text message. She opened the screen. 【Tomorrow's opponent will be announced on the day】 That was all. Mihara stared at the screen, frozen for a moment. In normal promotions, you'd be told your opponent by the day before. At the very least, the day before. You'd research how your opponent fought, think about their weaknesses, plan out your movements in your head. That was the normal preparation. But announced on the day. (Why?) Mihara typed a reply to the promoter. A short message: "I'd like to know the reason." She sent it and waited. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No reply came. Mihara set the phone down and headed for the heavy bag. Thud. Her right fist hit the leather. A dull sound echoed through the room. Thud. Thud. Thud. She continued, striking rhythmically. But her mind kept working. Announced on the day. Why. What kind of opponent. What techniques did they favor. What body type. What fighting style. Would she really go into the ring tomorrow knowing nothing? That was a disadvantage. Clearly. But there was something else that bothered her more. (Maybe they're doing this on purpose.) That thought spread slowly through her mind. Deliberately not telling her the opponent. Deliberately preventing her from preparing. If that was someone's intention——. Mihara stopped hitting the bag. She caught her breath. A little sweat had formed. She had no answer. But the feeling that something was wrong remained, lodged in her chest. 　*　*　* She headed down the hall to the shared shower room. She turned the faucet. Not hot water—cold water. Water fell from above. Cold. Her breath nearly stopped. But Mihara didn't move. The cold water flowed down her neck, ran down her back. Her body felt taut and tense. Her mind became quiet. Her thoughts seemed to reset all at once. Mihara stood there for a while. She turned off the water. Wiped her face with a towel. At the end of the shower room was an old mirror. Mihara stood in front of it. Still wet, she looked at herself. Black short bob. Natural waves soaked with water, undulating. Deep brown eyes. Slightly upturned. Those eyes looked straight back at her in the mirror. The Mihara in the mirror was standing. Still standing. Mihara didn't speak aloud. She formed the words with her lips alone. Fair and square. Fight straight. That's all. Tomorrow, no matter what happens, I won't run. Her resolve settled quietly. Not burning hot, not making her want to shout. Just quiet. Like a stone sinking. Mihara draped the towel over herself and returned to her room. 　*　*　* It was deep night. Mihara stood at the window again. Beyond the iron bars, the warehouse district spread out. A light visible in the distance. A small, orange light. In the direction of Galleria. Beyond that light was the iron door leading down. Past that, the underground floor with the wrestling ring. Tomorrow, Mihara would stand there. Face to face with someone whose name and face she didn't know. The sound of wind blowing through the warehouse district seemed to reach her faintly. Mihara stared at the light. After a while, she looked away. She placed one finger on the bars, then slowly withdrew her hand. (Something is wrong.) That conviction still remained in her chest. Announced on the day. No reply. The promoter hiding something. She didn't know the reason. But something was definitely different from usual. Mihara lay down on the bed. She looked at the ceiling. A concrete ceiling. Exposed as it was. Before closing her eyes, she thought once more. Don't run. Tomorrow, whatever comes. That was the only answer Mihara had right now.