Three days since the Widow fight.
Three days since the bruises stopped blooming.
Three days since Zayne Ward became a headline.
Tonight was supposed to feel normal.
The arcade smelled like burnt circuits and sugar. Rows of old cabinets flickered under neon tubes that hummed like a pulse. Zayne stood in front of one—Iron Fist Pro II, a relic from before Void Fist turned violence into spectacle.
Nia leaned on the machine beside him, arms crossed. The reflected glow painted her eyes amber."So this is your idea of a date?" she asked. "A museum for broken joysticks?"
He grinned. "Careful. These machines raised me."
"Romantic." She flicked a token at him. "Show me what all that Tier-One training's worth."
He caught it, slid it into the slot, and slipped on the cracked gloves. The sensors sputtered awake.
PLAYER ONE: ZAYNE WARD
MODE: ENDURANCE
He squared up. "Watch this."
The digital opponent lunged. Zayne moved sharper than the game expected—hands snapping out in clean, practiced lines. Years of struggle and three days of fame coiled behind every punch.
By round three, the sensors were lagging just to keep up.
When the final bell rang, the machine stuttered and flashed red.
NEW HIGH SCORE: 40,902 — ZAYNE WARD
A single kid clapped. Then another. Then someone shouted his name.
"Wait—that's him! That's the rookie! The Widow killer!"
Phones lifted. Cameras flared. The wave hit fast: cheers, questions, hands grabbing at his sleeve.
"Ward! Over here!"
"Can you sign my headset!?"
"How were you able to keep moving after Widow's inflicted injury?"
The crowd's noise folded into static. Nia's smile vanished. "Stay close."
Security didn't arrive. Void Fist did—black suits moving through the swarm, badges flashing the V. They parted the crowd, guiding Zayne and Nia through a door that blinked out the world.
The arcade dissolved into black limbo.
A chrome pod waited in the dark, humming low. Inside, a man rose from the leather seat like a storm wearing a suit.
"Santiago," Nia said, her tone dropping degrees.
"Vale," he purred. "Still rescuing strays?"
Zayne recognized arrogance when he heard it. The man was mid-thirties, sharp fade, blue suit tight across a brawler's frame. Void Fist insignia gleamed on his lapel.
"You must be Ward," Santiago said. "Hell of a debut. Broke our queen in half. Congratulations—Tier One, Grade S. The network's still cleaning up the viewership spike."
"Didn't do it for ratings," Zayne said.
Santiago's smile tightened. "Of course! A boy of your background wouldn't—until the credits hit."
"What does that me-"
"Sit." He gestured to the seat opposite. "Time you heard how the big leagues work."
A flick of his wrist, and numbers filled the air—contracts, endorsements, luxury towers, credit figures too large to breathe around.
"Void Fist's going mainstream," he said. "No more underground mythos. We're talking networks, merchandising, and global reach. And we think that you... You—working-class miracle story—you're the face we've been waiting for."
Zayne stared at the holographic zeroes. It looked like freedom. It sounded like ownership.
Santiago leaned closer. "You'll have housing above the smog line, private rig upgrades, residual percentages. You'll never crawl again, hell, this is probably the best deal you'll ever get in your life with Void Fist."
Nia's voice cut in, calm but edged. "He's not signing anything."
Santiago's gaze slid toward her, lingering too long. "Relax, Vale. You should be proud. Our boy made it."
He touched her arm. Casual. Possessive.
Nia froze. "He is my boy, don't align yourself with us. Remove your hand. Now."
"Old habits," he murmured.
"You don't have habits," she said. "You have boundaries you ignore."
Zayne's knuckles tightened on instinct. Nia's hand brushed his leg—a silent not here.
Santiago reclined, smirking and looking at Zayne's balled fist. "Ward, you've got potential. Don't let your handler clip your wings. Sign, and you're a household name."
Zayne opened his mouth, but Nia was already standing. "Meeting's over. He's still recovering. We'll be in touch."
"Vale—"
The door hissed open. Light swallowed his protest.
Outside, color bled back into the world—neon, gold, sound. A casino stretched in every direction: slot machines like chrome altars, dice spinning in holographic air.
Zayne blinked. "You planned this?"
Nia smiled. "Told you. I'm a casino girl."
She handed him a stack of chips. "For tonight—no strategy. Just spin."
He hesitated. "Never been lucky."
"You're still breathing," she said. "That's luck enough."
They found a roulette table. He dropped the chips on red. The wheel sang, the ball danced, and when it landed—Red.
Nia laughed, leaning against him. "See? Streak."
For a while, it felt like the noise drowned everything else—the offers, the limos, the eyes. They played until the pile of chips turned to glittering crumbs.
But when the table reset and the crowd thinned, silence crept back between them.
"What he said," Zayne murmured. "About going mainstream. It's real?"
Nia nodded slowly. "Real and rotten. They'll dress it as progress, but it's just control in cleaner packaging."
He studied her face. "You used to work for him?"
"I used to survive him." She swirled the last chip in her palm. "Santiago doesn't build fighters. He buys them."
"I picked up that vibe, but what he's saying the opportunities that he mentioned. I could jump to an entire new social class. No more slums, Nia. No more survival."
"Zayne..." She cupped her hand to his face. "You don't need to think like that. Look where you are, look at where you started. Do you really think that moving up so fast and quickly is really the best option here?"
"I don't want to see you go down that path... You won't be the same pers- the same man that takes me on dates like this. The same man that I am deeply infatuated with, who causes my heart to break every time I watch you put that headset on. Zayne, I'm begging you to get any thought of what he said out of your mind, please, please, please.
Zayne looked down at his hands—scabbed knuckles, half-healed ribs—and felt the old hunger stir. "What if that's the only way out?"
Nia met his eyes, steady and teary. "Then we cheat."
The wheel spun again, scattering red and black light across their faces. Somewhere above, a Void Fist billboard blazed gold—ZAYNE WARD, TIER ONE—his name looping like a victory chant.
He watched it turn, slow and endless, and realized the truth settling cold in his chest:
Winning was just the buy-in.
The real game was starting now.
INTERLUDE I - SANTIAGO
The limo door sealed. The soundproof glass dimmed.
Santiago loosened his tie, exhaling through a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He tapped his earlink.
"Patch me to Central Ops. Marketing division."
A beat. A voice replied. "Connected."
"Accelerate rollout for the Ward campaign," he said. "Full saturation. Use the underdog angle—'from the slums to the sky.' Push sponsorships from corporate-tier partners only."
"Yes, sir. And his handler?"
He laughed quietly. "Nia Vale's a relic. She still thinks loyalty is a contract clause. Don't worry. Once Ward tastes what we offer, she won't be able to keep him grounded."
A pause. Then, softly:
"And Widow's file—bury it deeper. Rewrite her output logs. No trace she ever spoke. After this month, I want the Widow and Zayne fight to be nothing more than a myth.
He shut off the link. The limo's window cleared just enough to show the casino's golden sprawl.
Zayne's name was already flashing across its screens.
"Welcome to the system," Santiago murmured. "Let's see how long you last."
INTERLUDE II - NIA
Nia sat alone in her apartment, lights dimmed to blue.
The console projected Zayne's biometrics—heart rhythm stable, lung strain improving, adrenaline spikes tapering off.
She let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The cursor blinked over an unsent report addressed to Director Hoshino, Compliance Branch.
SUBJECT: Santiago Rivera – Breach of Contact Protocols / Unauthorized Recruitment Attempt.
DETAILS: Attempted coercion of Tier-One fighter Zayne Ward. Intent to exploit likeness rights and override handler authority.
RECOMMENDATION: Internal audit/delay of promotional campaign.
Her finger hovered over "SEND."
Then she stopped. Closed the report.
Deleted it.
Instead, she opened a personal log.
"Day 187. Ward's recovery at 80%. Still refuses rest. Santiago resurfaced—predictable, dangerous. He doesn't see what Zayne really is yet. Maybe no one does. If he keeps pushing… he'll find out the hard way. I just hope that Zayne doesn't crack under the pressure."
She looked up at the skyline—billboards, floodlights, the city screaming ZAYNE WARD in molten gold.
"Don't let them change you," she whispered.
The console dimmed to black.