Rat had done all he could to count the tones. Keep track of the time. Unless there was another death soon, this was the end. This was his victory. The backpack was full, both with supplies and with the trinkets, the most obvious of which was a nut tied to the strap of the machete in his hand. The hand had small trickles of blood where the first two knuckles of his middle and ring fingers used to be, and his hair hung a mess around his head. At the back of his scalp was a bloody bare spot. Murder was on his eyes, and blood down his front. It didn't appear to be his own. Machetes were a messier weapon than most.

But there it was. The end. His hand not holding his weapon shook with the various poisonings he'd suffered, and exhaustion. He cast his gold grey eyes around. The black coal walls devoured shadows like hungry slum children did scraps of moldy bread. He knew this was the most dangerous part of this whole Arena. Fifteen more minutes. This whole place reeked of trouble. It did ever since he began. But this pavilion stank.

He took long, quick, strides, as steady as he could make it. He kept his head on swivel and his eyes anywhere he could point them. But he couldn't see everywhere at once.