The grimy underbelly of London throbbed with a nervous energy. It wasn’t just the usual pre-fight jitters; the air crackled with anticipation, a palpable sense that tonight was different. Tonight, The Crucible wasn't just a fight club; it was a battleground for vengeance, for truth, for the very soul of the underground.

Arthur, his face a mask of grim determination, shadowboxed in the cramped, makeshift locker room Anya had secured. The room reeked of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant, a stark contrast to the opulent boxes where Martel undoubtedly resided. He stretched, feeling the familiar aches and pains that had become constant companions. Victory's Price, indeed.

Anya, her eyes sharp and focused, taped his hands with practiced efficiency. "The reporters are in place," she said, her voice low. "They have everything – the journals, the evidence of Martel's fix, the testimony from the fighters he strong-armed. All they need is the signal."

Arthur nodded, his gaze fixed on the chipped concrete floor. "The signal," he repeated, the word heavy with meaning. The plan was audacious, borderline suicidal. Expose Martel publicly, in the very arena he controlled, while simultaneously battling the reigning champion, a mountain of muscle and rage known only as 'Titan'.