The Devil’s Game

Day 24 – The Arena

The body in the dirt was still twitching.

Gabriel didn’t look away.

The man had fought well. Desperate, brutal, but it hadn’t been enough.

And now?

The crowd was cheering his death.

Gabriel clenched his fists, his pulse steady. He was next.

The "arena" was nothing more than a cleared-out section of dirt, surrounded by stacked crates and barbed wire.

Above him, fifty militia men stood in a loose circle, drinking, laughing, waiting for the next fight.

Lucas Calloway stood at the front, watching like a bored king at a gladiator match.

"Enjoying the show, Father?" he mused.

Gabriel kept his voice calm. "You think this proves anything?"

Calloway smirked. "It proves everything. Strength is survival. And right now?"

He gestured toward the dead body.

"That man? He wasn’t strong enough."

Gabriel didn’t blink.

"Neither are you."

Calloway’s smirk faded.

Gabriel saw a flicker of real anger.

Then Calloway turned to the crowd, raising his arms.

"Alright, boys," he called. "Let’s see if the holy man can fight."

The crowd roared.

And Gabriel was shoved forward.

His opponent was already waiting.

A broad-shouldered man, head shaved, arms covered in old military tattoos.

Gabriel didn’t know his name.

Didn’t care.

The man cracked his knuckles. "Hope you’ve made peace with God, preacher."

Gabriel exhaled slowly.

He wasn’t a soldier.

Wasn’t a fighter.

But he wasn’t dying here, either.

The man lunged.

Gabriel barely dodged, the punch whistling past his head.

He moved instinctively, stepping inside the man's guard—

And slammed his elbow into the man’s throat.

His opponent staggered, coughing.

The crowd jeered.

Gabriel didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting hard—just like his father had taught him decades ago.

A sharp snap.

The man screamed, his arm bending the wrong way.

Gabriel kicked out—hard, fast, brutal.

The man hit the ground.

The knife in his belt—loose now.

Gabriel grabbed it.

And as his opponent looked up—eyes filled with rage and pain—

Gabriel drove the knife into his heart.

Silence.

Then the crowd exploded.

Cheers. Laughter.

Gabriel stepped back, breathing hard.

His hands were covered in blood.

Calloway watched him closely.

Then—he smiled.

"Well, well," he murmured.

He turned to the crowd.

"Looks like the Father’s got some fight in him after all."

More laughter. More shouts.

Gabriel wiped the blood off his hands.

He didn’t look at the man he had just killed.

Because if he did—

He might hesitate next time.

And there would be a next time.

Because Calloway wasn’t done with him yet.

Not even close.