Chapter 237: Masked Stakes The vehicle finally began to slow, pulling off the highway and into a wide, open lot. Max watched through the tinted window as the SUV rolled toward what appeared to be an abandoned ice rink venue. There was a single, long building surrounded by a cracked, weed-split car park. Above it, a faded sign clung to rusted poles, once proudly displaying a swirling ice skate, now barely legible under the streaks of time and weather. The letters were chipped and crooked, and a massive billboard stood nearby with a simple, clear message: CLOSED. If someone were just driving by, they’d easily assume the place had been out of business for years. But of course, like most things with gangs and shady dealings, the truth was hidden in plain sight. Anyone looking closer might’ve noticed the scattered cars lined throughout the lot, dozens of them, all expensive, glossy, and clearly not the kind of vehicles ordinary folks drove. Some had drivers waiting patiently inside, others had guards posted nearby. A few sat empty, but all radiated money and power. Eventually, the SUV pulled into one of the front parking slots, perfectly reserved like it was expecting them. Max glanced around as the engine cut off. VIP treatment? Or just making sure we’re in the spotlight? he wondered. ’The fact that this "special event" is happening in a place like this... I can’t tell if that’s clever or a red flag,’ Max thought to himself. ’The White Tiger Gang never messed with stuff like this. Too chaotic. Too many risks. Too many unknowns.’ They made their way toward the front entrance. One of the thugs accompanying them produced a key and inserted it into the rusted lock. With a sharp twist, the door creaked open. Once Max and Chad stepped inside, the thug immediately turned and locked the door behind them with the same casual precision. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust. Because while the outside screamed run-down and dangerous, the inside told a very different story. The air was warm, almost luxurious. A dim red glow lit the room, with strips of light running along the ceiling like stars scattered across a velvet sky. The flooring beneath their feet was soft, new carpet that looked like it belonged in a high-end hotel. All around, guests sat at elegant tables draped in black and gold. Each person wore a half-mask, similar to the ones Max and Chad had been given, fancy, mysterious, and no doubt designed to help them blend in. There was a full bar along the side, where suited staff served drinks with a smile. Waiters weaved through tables, delivering plates of sizzling food and flutes of bubbling champagne. But the centerpiece, the thing that made the entire room hum with tension, was the ring in the center of the venue. A full-sized boxing ring. Lit from above. Surrounded by velvet ropes and spectators. And currently, two fighters stood inside it, pounding away at each other with raw, brutal fists. No gloves. No rules. Just blood, sweat, and whatever fighting technique they could muster. Their bodies were bruised, their faces swollen. The crowd watched with an eerie silence, masks hiding expressions, as if violence had become casual entertainment. Max and Chad continued following the two Black Hounds through the venue. As they passed, some of the masked guests turned their heads, clearly curious. They were escorted up a set of sleek stairs to a higher platform where larger, more elegant tables overlooked the ring below. "Oh? A new VIP," one of the seated guests commented. Their voice was light, amused. "Haven’t seen the redhead before." "Right, right," another replied, adjusting their own mask. "But I’ve seen the blonde one. It’s been a while. Thought maybe he ran out of money." "We all take breaks," the first one said with a chuckle. "But if he’s back, must mean he’s still got something worth betting." Max ignored them. He wasn’t surprised by the whispers. After all, idiot or not, Chad had apparently handed over a billion dollars to the Black Hounds. So of course they were treating him well. And now, Max realized, they were probably eyeing a second billion. As they moved, Max took everything in. Observing. Analyzing. No sign of Vivian. No obvious high-ranking members, either. This was just one of many venues the Black Hounds had set up around the city, cleverly masked, well-hidden, but well-run. More importantly, Max took note of the security. Dozens of members moved throughout the venue, disguised as waiters, bartenders, or simply guests. They wore the same all-black gear as the thugs who had brought them in. He had no doubt they were trained, loyal, and capable of handling themselves in a fight. If Max were running the operation, he’d have done the same, keep the place looking relaxed while hiding weapons and warriors in every corner. Just in case another gang tried to crash the party. Eventually, they were seated at a lavish booth with an elevated view of the ring. The two thugs who escorted them stepped away without a word, falling back into positions among the patrolling guards. Max scanned the crowd. Nothing about the setup felt casual. Then, a new figure approached, tall, refined, dressed in a crisp black suit. His posture was straight, his demeanor confident. But the mask on his face? A massive, gleaming dollar sign. Max nearly scoffed. "Pleasure to meet the both of you," the man said, bowing slightly. His voice was smooth and rehearsed. "I am what’s known here as The Manager. "At these events, I’m your point of contact. If you have any issues, questions, or, most importantly, if you’d like to place any bets on tonight’s matches... you come to me." He straightened up and looked between the two of them. "I’m well aware of your current situation. And I’ve been informed of the debt that needs to be resolved tonight." Max narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the tone of this. "So I’ve come with a proposal," the Manager continued, hands clasped neatly. "As VIPs, I’m sure you have more than enough resources to cover what’s owed. So why not make the most of the evening?" He gestured broadly to the ring. "Place a bet. Take a chance. You could walk away with everything settled. One lucky win, and your entire debt... gone." Max immediately recognized the pitch for what it was, a trap disguised as generosity. But before he could even respond, he caught sight of the Manager’s hand. It was subtle, but his fingers had curled into a slight fist by his side. A warning. "R-Right!" Chad stammered, his nervous smile snapping into place. "We’ve got more than enough to clear the debt. So hey, why not? Let’s gamble a little, right?" Max turned slowly, his eyes locking on Chad behind the ridiculous wolf mask. Is this idiot really planning to gamble with my money like it’s his own?