Riot stepped off the curb and into the plaza where the old champion had asked to meet. A cracked fountain loomed there, three stone dog heads snarling at a sky they could no longer scare. A faded plaque listed wins from a decade ago. She read the names and felt the cold math of a career that had peaked too early. Building her team of rejects meant studying ruins like this one. A small red bird landed on the fountain's rim. It tilted its head at her, sharp-eyed, like it was sizing her up too. Then the champion arrived, smiling too wide, carrying a folder and a paper bag. He slid the folder across the stone. On top sat a cookie dough cupcake — her favorite, a detail he should not have known. The contract underneath promised sponsorship money she had no business being offered. Numbers too round. Clauses too short. The bird gave one sharp chirp and flew off. Riot's gut tightened in the same beat. She closed the folder and pushed it back. "No," she said. "And tell whoever sent you I'm not for sale." He stopped smiling. She walked away knowing two things had changed: someone powerful wanted her team, and now they knew she'd said no.