The apartment was quiet.
No sirens. No shouting. No leaking faucet this time.
Just the hum of the Void Fist headset pulsing on the mattress beside him.
Zayne sat cross-legged on the floor, still shirtless, a half-finished bowl of ramen on the nightstand. His bruises had faded, but the soreness lingered—muscle pulling in new ways it hadn't before. He reached for the headset and slid it over his face.
It clicked into place.
No countdown. No arena.
Just a black screen and a single prompt:
WELCOME BACK, WARD.
TRAINING MODE AVAILABLE.
SIMULATION, TACTICS, STRIKE FEEDBACK, OPPONENT REVIEW
Zayne blinked at the options. 'So this is the system, huh?'
He moved his hand, and the menu responded like a mirrored ghost, trailing after his motion, fast and weightless.
He selected Simulation first.
The screen flashed.
Suddenly, he was in a wide-open concrete room. Gray walls. No audience. Just silence and soft light. Like a gym stripped of everything but purpose.
BEGINNING SPARRING AI: LEVEL ONE
A figure appeared—no face, no voice. Just a shadowy humanoid shape with clear target zones glowing along its limbs and chest.
Zayne didn't wait.
He stepped in, threw a jab—clean, sharp—and followed with a right cross. The AI blocked it effortlessly and fired back with a smooth combo that made Zayne duck instinctively.
He laughed under his breath.
"So that's how it is."
They traded hits for the next two minutes. No health bars. No points. Just movement, rhythm, and response. Every time Zayne landed something, the simulation adjusted. Every time he slipped up, it punished him—light contact, just enough to sting, just enough to learn.
His breathing picked up. Sweat formed fast, even though his real body was still sitting cross-legged on the apartment floor. The headset pumped heat into his skin, syncing temperature with the virtual space.
By the end of the simulation, his strikes were tighter. He could feel it. The system gave no praise—just another prompt:
REPEAT?
NEXT MODE?
He selected Strike Feedback next.
His body reappeared in front of a red and white practice dummy. Virtual stats floated beside it.
CALIBRATING: PUNCH POWER – 54%
SPEED – 91%
STANCE STABILITY – 42%
Zayne narrowed his eyes. "Stance still trash, huh..."
He stepped in, delivered a combo. A chime rang—yellow tier.
He adjusted. Hit again—green. Not bad.
But every time he tried to go all-in, the power dipped. The system detected the imbalance, how he leaned too far forward, how his base wasn't solid enough to support true force. He was still using speed to survive, not structure to dominate.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's fix that."
He spent the next hour inside the module, experimenting with form, switching angles, shadowboxing the metrics like they owed him money. When he exited back to the main menu, he was drenched in phantom sweat.
He selected the last option: Opponent Review.
NEXT FIGHT: TWO WEEKS
OPPONENT CODE NAME: "WIDOW"
TIER: ONE
STYLE: UNKNOWN – RECORDED MATCHES: 2 (LIMITED ACCESS)
Only two fights.
Zayne tapped to load what he could. A grainy clip played—dim lighting, industrial ring, and a blur of movement that looked less like a fight and more like a dissection.
The opponent—Widow—moved like a dancer. Precise, silent, no wasted motion. Whoever they were, they didn't talk. They didn't showboat. They just finished. Clean shots to the temple. One to the throat. No drama.
Zayne leaned closer. Rewound. Paused on a single frame—arm extended, leg pivoted mid-turn, balance perfectly centered.
'Whoever this is… they know what they're doing.'
The second clip showed Widow dismantling a much larger fighter. Zayne recognized the style—brawler, like Gareth. But Widow didn't play the game. They baited, countered, and ended the match with three strikes.
No wasted motion. No mercy.
And no face. The video blurred just before impact every time, like the system had glitched—or someone made sure it would.
Zayne sat back. Exhaled slow.
This wasn't street-level anymore.
When he pulled the headset off, the apartment was pitch-black. The ramen had gone cold.
He stood up, arms stiff but sharp. His legs ached with a pressure that meant progress.
He was getting better. Cleaner.
Not just faster, now smarter.
'Precision's cute,' he thought, resetting his stance. 'But I don't fight pretty.'
Zayne hit the sidewalk just after midnight. The air smelled like exhaust, gun oil, and fast food. Lights flickered above the corner of 7th and Desmond—the same spot he'd been circling all week.
They were already waiting.
A half-circle of dudes lounged against the brick wall, smoking, laughing, passing time like they weren't quietly running half the block. Most of them wore hoodies, boots, and that signature don't-fuck-with-me look Zayne used to avoid.
Now, he walked toward it.
"Hey," one of them called, a wiry guy in a puffer vest. "Look who's back."
The rest turned. Grins broke out. A couple of them stood up straight, stretching arms, rolling necks.
"You training or trying to die?" another asked, already peeling off his jacket.
Zayne just cracked his knuckles and stepped into the alley. "You know the deal."
"Boy thinks he's Rocky now," someone laughed.
No crowd. No money on the line. Just fists, timing, and bruises that came free.
They came at him in twos now. Not to hurt him—just to make him earn it.
Zayne ducked the first swing. Snapped out a jab to the ribs. Pivoted left, felt a boot graze his thigh, and responded with a tight hook across the jaw. He'd learned to keep his stance compact. Learned when to bait, when to shift weight.
He was ironing out every mistake the Void Fist system had pointed out here, one hit at a time.
"Man, he's faster than last time," one of them grunted, stumbling back.
Zayne didn't answer. He just kept moving. Slipped a punch, spun inside a wide swing, and slammed a fist into the guy's gut. Clean contact. Good form. Not enough to drop him, but enough to make him respect the spacing.
Another guy charged. Bigger. Slower. Zayne let him come close, then dropped his weight and used the man's own momentum to flip him over his shoulder.
He landed with a thud.
The circle broke into whoops and curses.
"That's what I'm talkin' about!"
Zayne took a breath, chest rising and falling. He wasn't gassed. Not like before.
This wasn't survival anymore.
It was sharpening.
They circled again. A few more stepped forward—half grinning, half testing.
Zayne spit to the side, flexed his fingers, and stepped back into the middle.
'Precision's cute', he thought. 'But I don't fight pretty.'
The alley cleared out by 2 AM.
Some limped home, others vanished into side streets or perched on corners like vultures waiting for something worse to happen. Zayne didn't say goodbye. Didn't shake hands. He just walked.
Back home, he peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt, tossed it into the corner, and dropped onto the mattress like he'd been carrying the whole block on his back. His knuckles were scraped. His ribs sore. But none of it slowed him down.
He flexed his hand, watching the skin stretch over bruised bone.
Cleaner. Tighter. Better.
Outside, sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. Pipes rattled in the walls. His building always sounded like it was holding its breath.
Zayne leaned over and grabbed the headset.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't think.
Just slid it on.
And let the world disappear.