The hum of the simulation pod had become Zayne's heartbeat. Low. Constant. Inevitable.
He stood in the middle of the void again—flat gray floor stretching forever, ringed by drifting holograms of failed opponents. The air carried that sterile tang of ozone and sweat.
SYSTEM: "Training Module – Adaptive Combat: Monster Variant."
Scenario: Ten opponents.
Threat Level: Moderate.
Objective: Survive.
Zayne rolled his shoulders. His body still ached from last night's drills, but he didn't care.
Tomorrow wasn't a training run. Tomorrow was Widow.
He exhaled. "Run it."
The floor rippled. From the dark rose ten faceless monsters, skin slick and pale, each one branded with a glowing VF across the chest. The logo burned like a brand across flesh.
He didn't wait. He attacked.
Jab. Hook. Sweep. Counter.
He moved faster than he thought, every strike mechanical, precise, learned.
Each creature dropped and dissolved into pixels, replaced instantly by another.
He was stuck in a loop that didn't end—violence as repetition, pain as progress.
SYSTEM:"Efficiency: 89%. Strike deviation reduced by 0.2%. Continue?"
Zayne didn't answer. He reset his stance.
From behind the glass, Nia watched in silence.
Her reflection looked pale in the training chamber's blue light, tablet cradled against her chest. She'd been there since dawn, watching him run the same simulation over and over.
Every hour he looked less like the boy she met at King Slice and more like a weapon wearing his skin.
"Ward," she called into the comm. "Hydration."
He didn't even look up. "One more."
"That's your seventh."
"Still one more."
She muttered something under her breath and tapped her tablet. The monsters reappeared.
Zayne tore through them again, sweat flying, vision narrowing. Every blow came heavier, faster, angrier.
The simulation didn't talk anymore—it just obeyed, rebuilding itself every time he broke it.
His knuckles bled through the gloves.
He kept swinging.
In the glass, Nia's expression flickered between admiration and dread.
He wasn't training anymore.
He was punishing himself.
When the world finally went still, he stood shaking in the middle of the void, surrounded by the broken echoes of his work. His chest heaved, sweat running down his face.
SYSTEM: "Session complete. Efficiency: 92%. Cognitive strain: critical."
Next scheduled fight: Widow — Tier One.
Countdown: 19 hours.
Zayne blinked hard at that number. The sound of it made his stomach tighten.
The simulation blinked to black.
When he pulled the headset off, his real world felt wrong — heavy, sluggish, slow. The hum of the training center crept back in: fans, voices, footsteps echoing on metal.
Nia stood at the console. "You know you can actually stop before your brain melts, right?"
Zayne wiped his face with a towel. "You said I needed discipline."
"I said you needed control, not self-destruction."
"Same thing."
Nia entered the chamber, tablet in hand. "You done yet?"
"Not even close."
She handed him a towel. "You should be sleeping, not trying to code-punch your way through trauma."
He sat on the edge of the mat, towel draped over his shoulders. "You think she's ready for me?"
"Widow?" Nia scoffed. "She's been ready since the day you were born."
Zayne chuckled softly, though his hands trembled. "Then I'll make her remember me."
"That's not confidence," she said. "That's a death wish."
He looked up at her. "You still mad at me?"
Nia's jaw tightened. "That fight you took last night, you fought in Riley's place, Zayne."
"I didn't know—"
"I know you didn't. But you didn't ask either."
He said nothing.
She sighed and sat next to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her shoulder. "She's still out. Docs say she might wake by tomorrow."
"Then I'll go see her after I win."
Her head turned sharply. "You don't get it. Widow isn't like the others. She doesn't just fight. She tests. You last more than a minute in that cage, they'll start calling you Tier material. You lose, you're a headline."
Zayne stared at the floor. "Then I don't lose."
"Zayne—"
He stood abruptly, rolling his sore shoulders, eyes locked on the blank simulation wall. "Play Widow's last five fights."
Nia hesitated, then tapped her tablet. The air filled with light and motion—five holographic projections flaring to life, Widow's figure moving through each one like a phantom. Five different opponents. Five different deaths.
No wasted energy, no emotion. Every strike was surgical. Efficient. Perfect.
The system narrated softly, its tone clinical:
SYSTEM: "Widow—Tier One. Primary style: adaptive close-quarters.
Secondary: variable tempo. No consistent rhythm.
Strategic priority: control through unpredictability."
Success rate: 100%. Fatality likelihood: 72%.
Zayne watched, jaw set, heart thudding.
Every time she moved, he saw something—patterns under the chaos, micro-hesitations, weight shifts.
He replayed each one until the system flickered in protest.
Nia finally spoke. "That's enough."
He didn't turn. "Play it again."
Her voice softened. "Zayne, you're chasing ghosts."
He whispered, "She bleeds. Everyone bleeds."
Hours bled away like water through cracks. By afternoon, the training center emptied, but the pod light still glowed blue around them.
Nia sat at her station, eyes heavy. Zayne still shadowboxed silently inside the simulation room.
When her comm finally buzzed, she nearly jumped.
"Nia Voss," she answered wearily.
"Quick match slot open," said the voice on the other end. "Four thousand. Short notice. Tier One prep. Interested?"
Her eyes flicked toward Zayne through the glass. "Who's the opponent?"
"Doesn't matter. Someone needs to fill it."
She hesitated. "…Send details."
When she ended the call, she stepped inside the chamber again. "Rookie. You want a tune-up match?"
Zayne paused mid-swing. "Before Widow?"
"Warm-up. Four thousand credits."
He grinned faintly. "I'm in."
"You didn't even ask who it is."
"Doesn't matter," he said, echoing her tone from the first day they met. "A fight's a fight."
The match was fast.Too fast.
Zayne came back an hour later with a split lip, sore ribs, and a grin he couldn't quite control. "Done," he said. "Two minutes. Easiest four grand I've ever made."
Nia didn't smile. "Congratulations."
He caught the flatness in her voice. "What?"
She didn't answer.
That night, she drove him across the city.The rain made the neon bleed across the windshield, the colors melting into one another like bruises.
Zayne leaned back in his seat, body heavy from exhaustion. "You sure this visit is a good idea the night before my fight?"
"Yeah," she said quietly. "You need to see this."
The hospital was half-empty, the kind of place that smelled too clean to feel safe.Zayne followed Nia through the sterile corridors until they stopped in front of a room sealed with glass.
Inside, Riley lay motionless, IV lines tracing pale veins under her bruised skin.
Zayne froze. "…What happened?"
"She was supposed to be your warm-up," Nia said softly. "Her file got approved before Widow filed an override."
He looked at her. "You're saying—"
"She never made it to check-in. Widow found her first."
The room went silent except for the faint, indifferent beep of a heart monitor.
Zayne pressed his hand against the glass.
Riley's chest rose and fell, shallow, steady.
He could see his reflection in the pane—tired eyes, clenched jaw, and that faint, guilty shimmer of sweat still drying on his skin.
Whatever words were supposed to come next died behind his teeth.
He'd learned a long time ago that feeling didn't fix anything.
When things broke, you worked. When people left, you worked harder.
He turned and walked out.
Nia stayed for a while, watching the monitors blink against Riley's skin. The machines kept rhythm like a mechanical lullaby, cold and endless.When she finally followed Zayne outside, the night air hit like metal—wet, sharp, too bright.
She spotted him half a block down.
No jacket. No bag.
Just the headset pulled tight over his face, blue light flashing across the rain.
His body moved in violent rhythm—jab, slip, cross, kick—like he was fighting ghosts only he could see.
Each strike hit harder than the last, water spraying off his arms in silver arcs.
Nia's tablet buzzed.
She glanced down.
LIVE METRICS – ZAYNE WARD
Strike speed: +15%
Impact force: +22%
Endurance drop: 0%
Emotional stability: —data unstable—
Cognitive load: CRITICAL.
The numbers climbed as she watched.
He didn't even hear her approach; the world behind his visor had already swallowed him whole.
She lowered the tablet slowly.
The rain hissed against the pavement.
Zayne kept swinging.
Faster. Harder. Like every hit could undo what had been done.
Nia whispered to no one, "You're going to break."
But he didn't stop.
The headset pulsed brighter, heartbeat-blue in the dark, and the sound of his fists against nothing echoed through the empty street until it all blurred into a single, steady rhythm—
Work.
Breathe.
Hit.
Repeat.