The world came online with light.
Zayne stood inside the simulation cage—metal floor, haze at the edges, hum crawling up through his legs. Above him, a ring of translucent screens blinked awake. Faces filled them—spectators, avatars, investors—millions tuning in from penthouses and back alleys alike.
The chat feed scrolled along the walls like neon graffiti.
USER_119: "Tier One debut? Finally."
USER_VFPLAT: "Hope the rookie dies fast."
USER_SENSEI_X: "Heard he beat a trainer. Let's see if it's luck."
SYSTEM:"Broadcast channel live. Audience count: 2.7 million. Simulation parameters locked. Physical feedback enabled."
"Opponent: Widow."
Zayne rolled his neck until it popped. The static in his head finally went quiet.
"Run it."
The void rippled—then condensed. Widow stepped out of the smoke, the world reshaping itself around her like it was afraid not to.
The mask. The violet trim. The same impossible stillness.
"ROUND ONE. BEGIN."
Widow moved first.
A blur—fist to jaw, bone to metal. Pain flared white-hot, sending Zayne stumbling back as the crowd erupted. He caught himself, exhaled, and pushed forward again.
He was faster now. Sharper. The hours of drills under Nia's watch had built something new into his body—a cleaner rhythm, a steadier stance. He ducked the next swing, countered, and landed a hook that made Widow's mask jerk sideways.
The tone of the audience shifted from mockery to surprise.
But Widow was still Widow. She came back fluid, precise—her footwork unreadable, her control unnerving. She adjusted faster than he did. Every time he found a window, she shut it with a punishing strike.
Minutes bled into rounds.
The terrain began to change beneath them—panels splitting and rising, uneven ground forming between each exchange. The system's voice echoed like an overseer.
"Dynamic environment engaged."
Widow adapted instantly. She launched off a raised plate, twisting in midair, her heel connecting with Zayne's shoulder. The blow sent him skidding. He rolled, spat blood, and pushed off the ground before she could close the gap.
He stayed low, moving faster, angling, cutting—remembering what the sim had drilled into him: balance, control, rhythm.
They traded in brutal silence. The clang of each impact echoed through the cage. Sparks burst when their fists met, the light painting their sweat gold.
Time folded in on itself; ten minutes felt like hours. Zayne stopped thinking in numbers. He just fought.
Every breath seared. Every hit burned. His ribs screamed with each inhale, his legs heavy as cement, but he refused to stop.
Widow stayed composed—until his persistence began to crack her pattern.
She feinted left, pivoted—too predictably this time. The same micro-glitch he'd memorized from her past fights.
He saw it, and his instincts fired.
He stepped in and drove a right hook straight into her ribs. The impact knocked her off balance for half a heartbeat.
It wasn't enough to win. But it was enough to make her bleed pixels.
Widow paused, resetting her stance. The mask tilted, almost curious—like she couldn't decide if he was prey or problem.
Then she came harder.
She unleashed a flurry of strikes so fast the simulation's lighting stuttered to keep up. Each hit connected like thunder. His guard broke. He staggered. His lungs screamed for air, arms trembling from the weight of survival.
"Zayne, it's Nia. Your heart rate is 191, and the neural strain is critical. Override recommended."
"No, I'm fine," he hissed, blood dripping from his mouth.
The crowd was a sea of noise—half cheering, half chanting for death. Every camera locked on the rookie who refused to go down.
Zayne raised his guard again. His vision tunneled. His stance faltered, but his eyes never left her.
She swung. He caught her arm. The moment stretched.
He pivoted, used her momentum, and drove his knee into her midsection—dead center on the glowing VF insignia printed over her chest.
A burst of static flickered out from the point of impact, distorting the air between them.
Widow stumbled back, the emblem pulsing erratically. The crowd gasped as a hairline fracture split across her mask.
Zayne didn't think. He didn't breathe. He just followed through.
He swung again—once, twice, three times—every strike fueled by exhaustion and fury and something dangerously close to joy.
The third blow landed with a sound like thunder.
Widow froze. Her mask splintered down the middle. One violet eye flashed through, alive and furious.
For the first time, she looked human.
USER_123: "Mask breach confirmed! That's never happened—Ward just landed history!"
The crowd detonated into chaos. Wagers crashed, payouts froze, and the broadcast feed lagged under the surge of reactions.
Widow staggered but didn't fall.
Not yet.
Her chest rose and fell with short, ragged breaths. The smooth composure she'd worn for the entire match fractured like the mask on her face. The violet eye behind the crack burned through him—wild, unhinged, too alive.
"You think this makes you special?" Her voice rasped through the static filter, distorted and low, like metal bending under pressure. "You think you belong here, Ward?"
Zayne's knuckles bled freely now. He didn't answer. Couldn't. Every inhale burned through torn muscle, every heartbeat rattled like it was trying to escape his chest.
Widow took a step forward. The floor beneath her boot glitched. Her entire silhouette seemed to flicker with fury.
"I've been in this system longer than you've been eating, boy." She spread her arms wide, voice climbing. "I killed for Void Fist before it was a brand! Before they turned it into this… CIRCUS!"
She gestured upward—at the hundreds of screens, the millions of hungry faces.
The crowd roared back like a god that demanded sacrifice.
USER_9ECHO: "She's losing it!"
USER_VIP: "No, this is peak—keep the feed live! LET HER COOK!"
Widow's gaze snapped back to him.
"And they replace me with you? Some broke, desperate idiot with nothing but pity in his eyes?" Her tone was twisted, venomous, and trembling.
"You should've stayed in your hole, Ward. You should've DIED in round two."
She lunged.
Zayne barely saw it. The world collapsed into motion. She wasn't elegant anymore—she was chaos incarnate, striking with no rhythm, no restraint. Her fists came like gunfire, her kicks landing heavy enough to make the metal floor dent.
Zayne blocked the first few, but she didn't stop. Each deflection sent pain screaming up his arms. Every hit drove him backward until his heel caught the edge of a raised platform.
He tripped. She was on him in a heartbeat.
A fist slammed into his ribs. Then another.
Something cracked.
The pain was instant and absolute—sharp, deep, blinding. His breath vanished, replaced by a wet sound in his chest.
SYSTEM: "Critical trauma detected."
"Cardio-thoracic integrity compromised."
"Ward!" Nia's voice cut through the comms, trembling. "Zayne, stop—pull out, now!"
He couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe.
Widow's laugh echoed through the arena—low and broken, half sob, half scream. "How's that feel, rookie? Huh?" She dragged him upright by his collar, close enough that he could see his reflection warped across her cracked mask. "You think you can fix this system? You can't even survive it."
She shoved him, sending him sprawling into the metal wall. He hit hard enough to see stars. Blood spilled from his mouth, spattering the ground in thick droplets.
The audience lost their minds.
USER_777: "Holy shit, she punctured him!"
USER_XBRK: "Don't end it! Let her finish!"
USER_SPOON: "This is art!"
Nia slammed a hand against the console, face pale. His vitals were tanking fast—oxygen levels plummeting, heartbeat stuttering between spikes.
SYSTEM:"Neural distress critical. Suggest termination of—"
"Override!" Nia snapped. "Hold the line!"
On the floor, Zayne dragged himself up on trembling arms. His chest screamed with each breath, blood bubbling from his lips. Widow circled like a wolf, grinning under the crack of her mask.
"Void Fist loves its martyrs," she hissed. "Maybe they'll put your face on a poster next to your handler's. Oh—" she tilted her head, mock pity coating her tone, "you didn't think she was doing this out of kindness, did you? She's corporate, boy. You're just good for her career."
Nia froze at the console, her pulse spiking as the words reached her through the speakers.
Zayne looked up through blood-matted lashes, his voice coming out rough and low.
"You talk too much."
Widow roared and charged.
The arena blurred. Her strikes came from every direction—wild, furious, cracking the panels underfoot. She landed a backhand that split his lip open, followed by a knee to his stomach that nearly folded him in half.
Zayne staggered, his body shaking, lungs clawing for air that wouldn't come. His chest wound burned like liquid fire. But he watched her. Even through the pain, he saw the glitch again—the faint delay before her pivot, the imperfection in her otherwise perfect code.
He just had to survive it one more time.
Widow's next scream tore through the simulation, echoing raw in the metal walls.
She brought her fist down—Zayne caught it. Barely. The bones in his forearm popped, but he held on. He twisted, turned her weight, and slammed his elbow into her throat.
The move wasn't clean. It was ugly, desperate, and final.
She stumbled back, coughing—rage seething through her distorted voice. "You—don't—deserve—"
Zayne didn't let her finish.
He lunged, slamming his fist through the crack. The arena detonated in light. Widow's body convulsed, the VF emblem shattering into a cloud of dissolving code.
She fell to her knees, flickering like a broken signal—then collapsed completely.
The arena went silent.
Her mask split in two. For half a second, Zayne saw her face—tired, human, eyes full of something that almost looked like relief. Then she was gone.
SYSTEM: "Opponent down."
"Winner: ZAYNE WARD."
"Match complete."
For a long second, there was only static.
Then the world erupted.
AUDIENCE FEED: "WARD WINS!"
"THE ROOKIE BROKE HER!"
"NEW BLOOD IN THE VOID!"
The arena sky filled with digital fireworks. The Void Fist logo burned above him in gold, spinning endlessly.
Zayne stood still, breathing through his teeth, drenched in blood, sweat, and a static smile. No victory pose. Just the hollow rhythm of his heart is still trying to catch up.
SYSTEM:"Performance Rating: 92."
"Ranking Adjustment: Tier One – Grade S."
"Reward: 8,000 Credits."
"Public standing: Rising prospect."
The voice echoed in the synthetic applause.
To the millions watching, it was triumph. To Zayne, it was the quiet between screams.
He ripped the headset off, gasping. The real world hit him like cold air after fire. Sweat rolled down his spine.
Nia's tablet slipped from her hands. His vitals were still flashing in red, one lung partially collapsed, heart rhythm was unstable. Yet he was standing—barely—blood dripping from his chest, his face lit by the burning gold logo overhead.
To the millions watching, it was a victory.
To Nia, it looked like death wearing a grin.
"Zayne…" she whispered. "Do you even know what you just did?"
He wiped his mouth, eyes half glazed. "Yeah."
He looked past her at the monitors still flashing his name—millions chanting it like gospel.
"I won."