The elevator descended in silence.
Zayne gripped the strap of his duffel and tried to ignore the reflection beside him. Nia hadn't looked at him once since she dragged him out of the apartment. Her jaw was tight, her hair tied back in a sharp knot, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
He finally muttered, "You gonna stay mad all day?"
Her voice came flat. "Mad implies I didn't expect you to screw up."
He snorted. "Good to know you had faith."
"Faith's for people who still listen," she shot back.
The doors opened before he could answer.
Noise. Light. Heat.
The Void Fist Training Center pulsed with energy. Rows of fighters hammered at glowing targets, sweat flying in arcs beneath harsh white lights. Every impact registered on floating screens. Trainers shouted numbers, corrections, and commands.
The air smelled like metal and ammonia.
Zayne's eyes tracked the endless readouts—percentages, ranks, biometric stats. He wasn't on any of them.
Yet.
"Welcome to Tier Zero," Nia said coolly, walking ahead. "Every rookie starts here. You'll stay until Darius says otherwise."
He followed, eyes darting. "And who's Darius?"
"Your handler. He's less patient than I am."
"Didn't think that was possible."
She ignored him.
They passed through another checkpoint, scanners humming over their skin. Every gate they walked through made him feel smaller, more owned.
The pit sat at the heart of the center—steel cage walls surrounded by blue-lit monitors, like a lab built for violence.
A tall man stood waiting, arms crossed. One cybernetic eye glowed faintly blue.
"Darius Venn," Nia said. "Zayne Ward. New assignment."
Darius looked Zayne up and down. "He the sim junkie?"
"Unfortunately."
Zayne clenched his jaw. "You two rehearse this bit, or is it improv?"
"Save it," Darius said. "Suit up."
Minutes later, Zayne stood inside the cage, sweat already dampening his shirt. Nia leaned against the glass above, expression unreadable.
Darius paced in front of him. "Training in here runs differently than your little VR playground. Pain's real. Fatigue's real. The only thing simulated is mercy."
He pointed to the far side of the cage. "That's your partner."
A girl about his age adjusted her gloves—short braid, sharp amber eyes, a half-grin that didn't look friendly.
"Riley Quinn," Darius said. "She's been here six weeks. Still thinks she can outwork the system."
Riley smirked. "Not thinking, just proving."
Zayne raised a brow. "So what, we fight?"
Darius nodded. "Eventually. First, you run."
The floor shifted beneath their feet. Panels retracted, revealing a narrow track lined with glowing rings.
"Obstacle gauntlet," Darius said. "Five laps. Sensors track your output. Drop below eighty percent, and it starts over."
"Starts—"
"Go."
The alarm blared.
Zayne sprinted. The first few strides came easy, adrenaline carrying him. The rings pulsed as he passed—blue for speed, red when he lagged.
Riley matched him stride for stride.
"Keep up, rookie," she called.
"I'm—fine," he grunted.
By lap three, his lungs burned. Sweat soaked his shirt. The floor panels shifted mid-step, forcing them to leap gaps, slide under bars, climb short walls slick with condensation.
Every time he slipped, the system chirped: STABILITY DECREASE 7%.
He slammed a fist against the wall. "You serious?"
Darius' voice came over the intercom. "This is where we separate the streamers from the fighters."
Zayne grit his teeth and pushed harder.
By lap five, he wasn't running—he was surviving.
His breath came in ragged bursts, legs jelly, vision swimming. Riley crossed the line a full five seconds ahead, chest heaving, grinning through exhaustion.
Darius pressed something on his tablet. The floor sealed up again.
"Good," he said.
He handed Zayne a set of wraps and gestured to the open floor. "Start with conditioning. Ten minutes on the line. Movement, not speed. You warm up right, or you leave in a stretcher."
Zayne frowned. "Seriously? It's just warm-ups."
"Then it'll be easy," Darius said.
It wasn't.
Zayne joined the other rookies—stretching, bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders. The air was thick with tension and the low thud of gloves against palms.
Riley Quinn was already there, standing in front of a mirror panel, hair pulled into a short copper braid. She threw combinations at her reflection with fluid rhythm—jab, cross, slip, pivot—each motion surgical.
She caught Zayne's eye in the mirror. "You staring or learning?"
"Trying to guess how many fights you've already won," he shot back.
"None that mattered."
He grinned. "We'll change that."
"You can try."
Darius barked from across the room, "Quinn, Ward—on deck. Let's see if you can stay upright."
They started simple—footwork, pacing, reaction drills.Sensors tracked every twitch of their muscles, every ounce of imbalance.
Zayne's body screamed halfway through the second set. The floor was slick, his breathing ragged, sweat stinging his eyes.
Darius walked by, tablet in hand. "Ward, you move like your body doesn't trust you. Fix it."
"Yes, sir," Zayne muttered through clenched teeth.
"Quinn, slower transitions. You're burning output too fast."
Riley nodded, jaw set. "Got it."
They kept moving.
Shadowboxing.
Pushups.
Burpees.
Knees to chest.
No breaks.
By the fourth set, Zayne's arms trembled. His legs felt like iron beams filled with lead.
Nia watched from the balcony, stone-faced.
Every time he looked up, she wasn't looking at him. She was writing something down.Probably another report about his "lack of focus."
After an hour of hell, Darius finally called, "Pair up!"
Zayne nearly collapsed in relief. "Finally sparring?"
Darius grinned. "You say that like it's a reward."
Zayne turned to Riley as they entered the cage. "You ready?"
She tightened her wraps. "Always."
He noticed a tattoo on the inside of her wrist—a small, black widow spider.
He frowned. "That's a hell of an image."
She looked at him sideways. "Family mark."
Something clicked. "Wait—Widow, as in—"
"My sister," she said before he could finish. Her tone was calm, but there was something sharp underneath. "She's the reason I'm here."
"She's my next big fight," Zayne smirked.
"Then you'll lose like you did before, after all, you won't even be able to keep up with me."
The first few exchanges were quick—testing reach, pace, timing. Riley's form was disciplined, eerily familiar. She had Widow's balance, Widow's patience.
But where Widow was calm, Riley was loud—grunting with every strike, talking through her attacks.
"Come on, Ward!" she shouted, jabbing. "That's the same guy who survived her?"
He ducked, blocked, and countered. "Didn't know I was fighting family!"
"Now you do!"
Her kick slammed into his thigh. Pain shot up his leg, but he pivoted off it, throwing a right hook that grazed her jaw.
Darius barked, "Better! Keep tempo!"
Zayne's lungs burned. His shirt clung to him, heavy with sweat. The cage floor vibrated under each hit, sensors flaring with each contact.
He blocked another flurry, but she slipped past his guard and caught him with an elbow to the ribs. He gasped, the air knocked clean out of him.
"Still standing?" she asked.
"Barely."
They circled. Zayne wiped blood from his lip. "So what's your angle? Trying to beat her record?"
Riley's eyes flicked up, a spark of pride and pain mixed together. "Trying to find out why she stayed."
That threw him for half a second—just long enough for her to sweep his legs.
He hit the mat hard.
Darius blew the whistle. "Round!"
Zayne lay there, staring up at the lights. His body screamed from head to toe. His chest heaved like a drowning man's.
Riley crouched beside him, grinning. "Not bad."
"Drink water. You'll need it tomorrow." She straightened, brushing dust off her gloves. "And for the record—if you ever face her again, don't hesitate. She won't."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"Not a talk. A warning."
She walked off, a towel draped over her shoulders.
Nia met him by the locker room door, arms crossed. "You're slower than your file says."
He glared. "Nice to see you too."
"You want praise, earn it. You lasted through warm-ups and didn't die. Congratulations, rookie."
"Still mad, huh?"
"Still watching you try to burn yourself out."
He dropped onto the bench, exhausted. "You drag me here to humiliate me?"
"No," she said, voice flat. "I dragged you here so you'd see what real fighters look like."
Zayne didn't answer. His hands trembled as he peeled off the wraps. His knuckles were raw. The blood was real.
Nia turned to leave. "Five a.m. tomorrow. Be ready."
He looked up weakly. "You said six earlier."
"I changed my mind."
The door hissed shut behind her.
He sat there for a long time, breathing hard, staring at the floor.
Riley's words replayed in his head.
'Don't hesitate. She won't.'
His fists clenched.He wasn't done.
The wall screen above his locker flickered to life, displaying his current rank:
RANK: UNRATED – PERFORMANCE UNDER REVIEWNEXT EVALUATION: WIDOW.
Zayne wiped sweat from his face, forcing a shaky grin.
"Guess family reunions are coming," he muttered.