The sky was still bruised with night when Zayne reached the Void Fist Training Center.
Steam curled from the vents in the sidewalk, mixing with the faint smell of burnt oil. The streets were silent except for the hum of a delivery drone passing overhead.
He checked his phone. 4:57 A.M.
Too early, even for the desperate.
He dropped his duffel at his feet and leaned against the cold glass of the front doors. Inside, the halls were dark, only the faint blue of security lights tracing the outlines of metal detectors. For a second he saw his reflection—tired eyes, split lip, the faint shadow of a bruise down his jaw—and almost didn't recognize the man staring back.
He had gone a full day without the headset. No visions, no phantom static under his skin. Just silence.
It felt strange.
Good, but strange.
He pulled out the small Void-brand protein bar Nia had tossed at him yesterday. Dry, tasteless, but fuel.
One bite. Then another.
He muttered to himself, "Discipline, right?"
The door lights clicked from red to green. The building woke up.
Nia arrived first, hair pulled into a tight bun, blazer replaced by a black training jacket. When she spotted him waiting, the irritation that always rode her face flickered into surprise.
"You beat the locks," she said.
"Couldn't sleep."
Her gaze swept him once, as if scanning for withdrawal. Finding none, she nodded once—approval disguised as boredom.
"Good. Maybe you're starting to figure out what kind of place this is."
"What kind of place is that?"
"The kind that eats the lazy."
She brushed past him; the faint scent of her perfume cut through the metal smell of the hall.
"Get changed. Warm-ups start at six."
At 5:40, the first recruits trickled in—half awake, dragging bags, muttering curses. By six, the lower pit pulsed with noise again: gloves slapping pads, jump ropes snapping rhythm, trainers barking counts that echoed off the steel.
Zayne joined the line for morning conditioning.
Sprints, squats, jump burpees, rotation strikes.
Every movement was tracked by sensors that pulsed in rhythm with the fighters' hearts.
He caught sight of Nia on the balcony, arms folded, tablet in hand.For the first time, she wasn't glaring—she was watching. Evaluating, but not hating.
"Ward!" Darius's voice cut through the noise. "Move your shoulders with your strikes, not after!"
"Yes, sir!"
He adjusted, felt the difference immediately—less strain, more flow.
The repetition drowned thought. By the time they switched to pad work, his mind was blank except for the rhythm of impact.
When drills rotated, Zayne glanced toward the racks where Riley usually warmed up—her spot was empty.
He frowned and asked one of the other rookies, "You see Quinn this morning?"
"Not yet," the guy said. "She's never late, though."
The answer didn't sit right. Riley was always the first one in, chirping trash talk before the caffeine hit.
Zayne pushed it aside, telling himself she probably overslept.
Still, every empty space in the room felt like a missing beat in the song.
They finished the third set of reaction drills.Sweat rolled down Zayne's neck, soaked his shirt. His lungs burned, but it was the good kind of pain—the kind that said alive.
Darius walked the floor like a general. "Better. You're finally moving like fighters, not tourists."
He stopped behind Zayne. "You keep this up, Ward, you'll actually earn your badge before you break something."
Zayne smirked. "High praise coming from you."
"Don't get cocky."
Nia called down from the deck, "He's right. You start grinning, you start losing."But her tone wasn't cruel—just professional.Measured.Almost proud.
He looked up. "You sound less angry today."
She raised an eyebrow. "Don't ruin it."
The faintest corner of her mouth twitched.
"Ward," Darius barked. "Pit Two."
Zayne wiped his face with a towel and stepped into the cage.
No partner this time.
Darius followed him in, cracking his neck. "Riley's out. You're stuck with me."
Zayne blinked. "You're kidding."
"You want Tier One, you keep earning it."
As he wrapped his hands, the other fighters slowed to watch.
Darius didn't spar rookies often. When he did, someone usually bled.
Zayne tried to remember everything Riley had drilled into him—angle, breath, base.The first hit came faster than he could blink.
CRACK.
Darius's jab slammed into his guard, sending him stumbling.
"Focus!" Darius barked. "You hesitate, you die!"
Zayne grit his teeth, recovered, and countered.
They moved in a blur—teacher and student, sweat spraying with every hit.
Darius didn't hold back. His strikes were heavy, deliberate, and designed to expose flaws.
Zayne adapted fast. Dodged one hook. Slipped under a second. Landed a clean cross.
The man grinned, blood on his lip. "Better."
For ten straight minutes, they traded blows. Every muscle in Zayne's body screamed. His breath came ragged, his vision tunneled.
Then Darius threw a sweep. Zayne blocked, pivoted, and countered with a knee to the ribs that actually landed.
The room went still.
Darius looked down, hand pressed to his side—then smiled. "Guess you're learning."
Zayne could barely breathe. "Guess I have a good teacher."
Nia called from above, tone unreadable. "Both of you—enough. He's done for the day. Zayne, you have sim training tomorrow, under close supervision."
Zayne sank to one knee, laughing between gasps. "No arguments here."
"Ward, don't get sucked into that headset again. I expect to see you here next week after your fight."
"I'll be in tier one. Thanks for everything."
"Yeah, no problem ki-"
The lights in the pit flickered.
Then flickered again.
Zayne frowned. "Power issue?"
Darius turned toward the control panel. "No—system's stable."
The gate at the far end of the pit hissed open.
The sound made everyone in the room look up.
Nia froze.
From the shadows stepped Widow.
Same black suit. Same smooth obsidian mask. Her presence sucked the air out of the room.
In one hand, she dragged a limp figure by the collar—Riley.Blood smeared across her jaw and neck.
Zayne's heart stopped.
The pit went dead silent. Trainers, fighters, even the machines—everything halted.
Widow's voice came cold through the mask, sharp as glass.
"Which one of you has been training my trashy little sister?"
The words echoed.
Nia's jaw clenched. "Widow—"
Widow dropped Riley to the floor. The girl groaned faintly, still breathing but barely conscious.
"Answer me," Widow snapped. Her gaze swept across the pit until it landed square on Zayne.
Zayne didn't move.
Widow tilted her head. "Her place is beneath me."
Zayne's fists tightened. "She was just training."
The mask turned toward him. "You."
Her voice shifted, dangerous and soft. "You're Ward."
Zayne's pulse hammered. "Yeah."
"We fight for your placement match... what a waste of my time."
Nia's voice rang sharp from above. "Widow—stand down! You don't have clearance to be here."
Widow tilted her head, the movement smooth, reptilian. "You think I need clearance to clean up trash?"
Her gaze swept across the pit, locking on Darius.
"You're the one who trained her."
Darius didn't flinch. "She volunteered. She fought and earned her spot just like everyone else. And just like you did when you were younger."
Widow stepped forward, every movement deliberate, controlled. "She doesn't get to volunteer."
Then she moved.
One second, she was ten feet away.
Next, her fist smashed into Darius's gut, sending him stumbling back with a cough of blood.
"Widow!" Nia shouted, voice cracking with fury. "Enough!"
Widow's heel came up—fast, surgical—slamming into Darius's jaw. The man hit the mat hard, rolling, spitting blood, and laughing.
"I must really be losing my grip if you could send me flying like that!"
"Still think you run this floor?" she hissed.
Zayne didn't think—he just moved.
He caught her arm mid-swing as she reared back for another strike.
"Back off!" he snarled.
Widow turned her mask toward him.
"Zayne Ward," she said, voice smooth, dangerous. "You still aren't skilled enough to beat me."
Zayne's grip tightened. "You've got issues with her training? Take them up with me."
Her laughter was low and distorted through the mask. "Gladly."
She moved like a storm.
Zayne barely dodged her first strike. Her second grazed his cheek.
The air cracked from the speed of her blows.
Each hit was surgical—no wasted motion, no sound beyond the impact.
He swung back, caught her shoulder with a glancing shot. She twisted, caught his arm, and threw him into the cage wall.
The metal shuddered.
Pain exploded through his side.
Widow stepped closer, calm, almost curious. "You hit harder than the recordings showed."
He spat blood, grinning through it. "Guess the system underestimated me."
"Systems never underestimate," she whispered. "Only people do."
She struck again. Fast. Clean. He blocked, countered, ducked—but she was still faster.
Her knee slammed into his ribs.
He dropped.
She raised a boot to his chest. "You think training makes you ready for me?"
"Maybe not," he gasped. "But it makes me stubborn."
He twisted, grabbing her leg, and swept her down. She hit the mat hard—but rolled instantly, fluid as smoke, back to her feet.
The air between them was static and blood.
Darius, still dazed, tried to rise. "Widow—enough!"
She turned, and without hesitation, backhanded him across the jaw with a strike that sent him crashing into the cage post.
"Riley is no longer allowed on the Void Fist complex grounds. Effective immediately."
Nia shouted something from the deck, but Widow ignored her, striding toward the exit.
Nia started down the stairs. "Widow! This isn't your call—"
Widow turned sharply, hand snapping up.
A knife hissed from her glove, flying across the room.
It buried itself into the metal railing beside Nia's head. The sound made everyone freeze.
"Stay out of my bloodline," Widow said quietly.
Nia didn't move. Her jaw set, eyes burning. "Touch another fighter, and I'll bury you myself."
Widow's mask tilted, almost amused. "Then we'll both get dirty."
She turned and walked out, the door sealing behind her with a hydraulic hiss.
*Forty minutes earlier*
The sublevels of the Void Fist complex were quiet—the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs and made breathing feel like trespass.Rows of dormant spar platforms glowed faintly blue in the dark, waiting for commands that never came.
Riley Quinn walked through the stillness barefoot, wraps hanging loose from her wrists. Her heart pounded, but not from fear. From resolve.
She wasn't supposed to be down here.But she knew her sister would come.
When Widow arrived, she didn't come from the shadows—she stepped out of them, like they were part of her. Same black compression suit, same mask, same silence. Only her eyes—flat violet, ringed with exhaustion—betrayed anything human.
"Riley," she said quietly. "Go home."
Riley's chin lifted. "No."
"This isn't your place."
"I'm already in," Riley said. "I registered a few weeks ago. Nia put me on the trainee roster; my first fight is tomorrow. I actually fight Zayne Ward, so I'm not leaving."
Widow stared at her. The pause stretched too long.
"You don't know what you've done."
"I know exactly what I've done," Riley shot back. "I'm not watching you disappear into this thing. I'm climbing the ranks to get to you. If you won't leave it, I'll drag you out myself."
Widow's head tilted, a gesture almost pitying. "You can't drag ghosts."
"I can fight one."
The silence between them broke like glass.
Widow moved first.
A blur—elbow, knee, grab, throw. Riley barely blocked, the shock rattling her bones. She hit the mat hard, gasped, rolled, and came up again.
"Stop!" Riley shouted. "I'm not your enemy—"
Widow's voice was steady, detached. "Then stop pretending to be a fighter."
Her punch split Riley's lip. The next cracked her ribs.
Still, Riley swung back—wild, desperate, full of heart.
Every hit Widow landed was measured, clean, efficient. Not rage. Not punishment. A cruel lesson carved in flesh.
Riley coughed blood and laughed through it. "You think this—this keeps me safe? You think if you break me, I'll stop loving you?"
Widow froze. Just for a breath.
That was enough for Riley to land a hit—a sloppy right hook that barely connected, but it made contact.
Widow's head snapped to the side. She touched her jaw, looked at her sister, and something like grief flickered in her eyes.
"I warned you," she whispered.
She grabbed Riley by the arm, twisted, and drove her into the wall. Riley's body crumpled, breath gone. Widow stood over her, shaking—not from exertion, but from what she'd just done.
She knelt beside her sister, brushed a strand of hair from her bloodied face.
"You were the only good thing left," Widow said softly. "You think you can save me, Riley?"
Her voice cracked for the first time. "This place doesn't let people be saved."
She picked Riley up, her movements trembling, almost gentle.
"Maybe when you wake up," she murmured, "you'll understand."
And she carried her out of the sublevel, toward the elevator that led to the surface—the one that would open, forty minutes later, into the red-lit chaos of the training pit.
*Back to Present*
Now, the echoes of that beating lived in every scrape on the mat. Zayne could still see the faint smear of blood where Widow had stood.
He didn't know the story—only the wreckage it left behind.