Six Months Earlier — Fight #50
STREAK 50 – 0
The pizza box sat between them on a scarred table, grease soaking through cardboard.
The apartment hummed with old pipes and cooling fans from Zayne's rig. His ribs were taped; her hair was damp from the rain. The smell was sweat, sauce, and relief.
Zayne bit into a slice. "Halfway to a hundred. You said I wouldn't last ten."
Nia grinned. "I said you wouldn't last quietly."
He laughed. "Same thing."
They ate with their knees touching, watching the replay hover above the table—Zayne dropping his fiftieth opponent with a body-shot that made the crowd erupt. For once the noise felt earned.
Then came the knock. Sharp. Authoritative.
Nia frowned. "Ignore it."
He didn't. Old habits.
The door slid open to reveal Santiago Rivera—blue suit, silver cufflinks, smile polished to corporate perfection.
"Evening, champions." He stepped in without waiting. "Hope I'm not interrupting… whatever this is."
Nia's tone cooled. "There's a review next week. You're early."
"Review's done." He dropped a holo-slate onto the table. Light spilled upward: ZAYNE WARD – THE HUNDRED RUN in radiant gold, his face rendered flawless. B-roll highlights looped behind the slogan.
"You launched it," Nia said flatly. "Without clearance."
Santiago shrugged. "Void Fist launched it. You work for them."
"You can't just—"
"I can," he said softly, smiling. "The system gets what it wants."
He tapped Zayne's chest. "You're not a fighter anymore, kid. You're a narrative. From the slums to the skyline—hope incarnate. We're hoping that it sells more to your people. So what do you think?"
Zayne's eyes narrowed. "My people? And if I say no?"
"Then you vanish." Santiago straightened his cuffs. "Enjoy the pizza. Next week you'll be eating with sponsors. And Nia..."
Santiago looked around at the rundown apartment. "For goodness' sake, get the kid into a new place. I'm tired of coming back to this shithole."
He left the door open behind him. Rain hissed in the hallway.
Nia stared at the holographic ad still looping over the box. His smile on the projection was bigger, cleaner, someone else's.
"They already own your face," she whispered.
Zayne watched the light flicker across his gauze-wrapped ribs.
"I'm sure that it'll be a problem for another day."
The holo blinked gold.
Present Day
Zayne's Win Streak 87-0
Numbers hung above the arena like constellations. Every cheer hit in sync with their pulse.
Zayne Ward stood in the spotlight, gloves humming as servos tightened.The mat beneath him was company blue—no dust, no blood, only shine.Crowd, cameras, noise. All scripted.
The bell dropped.
Three strikes. One pivot. Finish.
The avatar crashed to the floor.
STREAK 88 – 0
The pyros fired; the crowd roared on cue. He lifted a glove because that's what heroes did.
Inside, however, there was nothing left to lift.
Assistants swarmed him, wiping sweat, re-powdering skin, changing jackets.
The director barked, "Smile! Sponsors love teeth."
He smiled.
"Ward! Over here!"
Flashbulbs stuttered like gunfire as a dozen reporters shouted his name.
"How does it feel to carry the Void brand?"
"What's next for the Hundred Run?"
He gave them the line the teleprompter had fed him earlier.
"It's an honor to fight for the fans." The words tasted like dust.
Nia watched from the console wall, expression tight. Behind her,
Santiago's voice purred through comms:
"Beautiful work, kid. Clean, efficient. Keep it up. Remember that you are the Star of Void Fist; you should act like it more."
Zayne stared past the cameras to the reflection in the glass—a perfect image that looked almost human, almost like him.
"Just take me home."
The ride up took forty-seven seconds. The elevator was glass, so the city never stopped looking back at him.
Ad banners drifted between the towers outside—his own face punching through holographic opponents, tagline blazing:
ZAYNE WARD — THE FUTURE FIGHTS HERE.
He killed the display, but the reflection stayed.
At level 118, the doors opened to silence and filtered air. His new apartment—Void Fist Housing Unit 7C—smelled of ozone and luxury polish.
Everything gleamed. Chrome counters, smart glass walls, climate lights that shifted to match "optimal recovery hue."
No windows opened.
The system spoke the moment he stepped inside.
"Welcome home, Mr. Ward. Congratulations on your eighty-eighth victory. Your next training block begins at 0700. Nutrient intake scheduled in—"
"Mute," he said.
The voice died, leaving the hum of unseen vents.
He walked through the rooms like a guest in someone else's museum.
Every surface carried a Void Fist logo—etched on the fridge door, woven into the couch stitching, pulsing faintly in the shower glass.
Even the bedframe displayed his streak in soft gold numbers that updated automatically: 88 – 0.
A courier drone waited in the center of the living space, box hovering at chest height. He tapped the seal. Inside: a pair of sponsor shoes, a new wristband, and a note from Santiago on embossed foil.
"Enjoy the view, kid. You never know when it'll be taken away."
He looked toward the panoramic wall. Beyond the glass, Baton District sprawled below—a hundred stories of noise and light he used to walk through on his way to work shifts. Up here, it looked clean. Too clean.
He sat on the edge of the couch. The cushions adjusted automatically to his posture, chirping a soft perfect alignment achieved.
He laughed once. "Perfect."
A message blinked across the wall screen—NIA VALE — ENCRYPTED CALL.
He answered.
Her face appeared, blue-lit, eyes tired. "They move you in already?"
"Just landed."
"Everything functional?"
"Everything's perfect," he said. It came out flatter than he meant.
She hesitated. "I wanted to check on you before tomorrow's Board briefing. Santiago's pushing new clauses—performance quotas, neural compliance metrics. I'm trying to slow it down."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Don't. Let him do what he wants."
"Zayne—"
"Because I'm going to do what I want," he said, half-smiling. "That's the deal, right?"
She didn't smile back. "You keep saying that like it's freedom, and I'm not too sure that you have the right idea." She sighed. "I'm coming over tonight, with pizza. Let's just try to have a normal night."
The call cut before he could respond—network interference or corporate timing, he couldn't tell.
Silence again.
"Pizza night… it's been forever since we've had those," Zayne said, half-smiling at his own reflection in the glass. The skyline pulsed in neon gold, and somewhere out there his name scrolled across a thousand screens. "I wonder if it still holds the same meaning to Nia as it did to me back then…"
The door sensor chimed.
"Handler Vale detected. Entry authorized."
She stepped in carrying a pizza box and a six-pack of orange soda.The smell hit him before she even spoke.
"Void Fist diet's overrated," Nia said. "Figured you could use something made of actual calories."
Zayne laughed. "You remembered."
"I never forget grease therapy."
She tossed the box on the counter and kicked off her boots. "Alright, superstar, what's it like being on top?"
"Quiet," he said. "And too clean."
She blinked. "You complaining about success?"
"I'm complaining about silence."
Nia smiled softly. "Then let's fill it."
They ate straight from the box, sitting on the floor instead of the couch. Sauce on their fingers, laughter bouncing off chrome walls. The sterile apartment felt human for the first time.
Halfway through the box she leaned back against the counter, studying him. "You're different."
"So are you," he said. "You cut your hair."
"I got tired of the old me."
He took a breath. "I missed you."
The words landed between them—too simple, too real. Her eyes flicked down, then back up.
"I know," she said quietly. "I missed me too… when I was with you."
He reached across the pizza box, brushing grease and cardboard, and covered her hand with his. No cameras. No handlers. Just the hum of the vents and the city breathing beyond the glass.
For a long second, neither moved.
Then Nia's smile trembled into a laugh. "God, we're terrible at subtle."
"Yeah," he said, grinning. "Been pretending long enough."
They didn't rush the kiss. It just happened—slow, certain, inevitable. Warmth replacing the buzz of the air system, the world narrowing to the sound of two people finally letting go.
A knock shattered it.
The door slid open before either could speak.
"Whoa—hope we're not interrupting!" Riley's voice burst into the room, bright and unfiltered. Darius followed, grinning under a black Void Fist hoodie, a bottle of synth-champagne in hand.
Nia jumped back; Zayne coughed and wiped at the corner of his mouth. "You guys ever heard of knocking?"
Riley laughed, setting down a stack of boxes. "We did. The system just doesn't listen."
"Celebration," Darius announced, raising the bottle. "For the man who refuses to lose. Eighty-eight and counting!"
Nia rolled her eyes but smiled. "You two planned this?"
"Guilty," Riley said. "Nia told us you've been living like a ghost. Figured you needed people instead of screens."
Zayne shook his head, still smiling. "You're both insane."
"Yeah, but we're your kind of insane," Darius said, popping the cork. Foam sprayed across the polished floor. "Here's to the Hundred Run."
They clinked glasses—water for Nia, soda for Zayne, champagne for the others. Laughter replaced the hum of machinery.
Riley leaned on the counter. "Oh, and, uh—big news. I'm back in the circuit."
Zayne nearly choked. "You're fighting again?"
"Yup." She grinned wide. "Got my own sponsor. They keep saying they want me to be like my sister, but…" she shrugged, fire sparking in her eyes, "I've got my own style."
"That's what I'm talking about," Darius said. "About damn time."
Zayne raised his glass toward her. "To finding your own way."
She smiled. "Right back at you."
Nia nudged him with her shoulder, whispering, "See? Still room for good things in this system."
He looked around the room—friends laughing, pizza cooling, city lights reflecting in every surface. For a moment, he let himself believe her.
Later, after the laughter faded and the others left, Nia lingered by the door.
"Next time," she said softly, "we start with the kiss and then the pizza."
He chuckled. "Deal."
The door slid shut behind her, leaving the faint scent of sauce and perfume in the air. He looked at the half-empty box, at the streak counter glowing above the bed, and smiled to himself.
For the first time in a long while, the silence didn't feel empty.
The champagne spray hadn't even dried on Zayne's floor before Santiago's private channel chimed.
He sat in his office high above the skyline, tie loosened, the night reflected in the glass behind him. His view faced the same towers that carried Ward's name, their gold letters crawling across the smog like scripture.
"Connect to executive frequency," he said.
Nine sigils pulsed into existence across the dark glass table, silhouettes of men and women wrapped in static. Their voices layered—some distorted, some clear.
"Ward's numbers are stable.""Engagement up twenty-two percent after tonight's appearance.""Projected sponsorship revenue—seventy million by quarter end."
Santiago smiled. "The people love him. They believe in the story. A miracle sells better than a product."
One of the silhouettes leaned forward, voice silk over steel.
"And the handler?"
"Vale," he said. "Still protective, still stubborn. She's good for optics—softens him. The public sees a romance, they see humanity. I'm letting it play out."
"You think she'll stay loyal when the quotas start?"
He shrugged. "She believes she's saving him. That belief is leverage."
Another voice—older, colder.
"Leverage is temporary. We need control. Is the neural interface ready?"
Santiago tapped a control on his desk; a small schematic projected above the table—Zayne's new wristband, coiled with threads of silver circuitry.
"The performance algorithm is active. It tracks adrenaline, neural focus, and aggression response. When we tune it, we can guide the fights without his awareness."
"Guide?"
Santiago grinned. "Predict outcomes. Shape spectacle. Keep the streak alive."
Silence. Then slow applause from one of the figures.
"Proceed. But remember—if Ward begins to deviate from the script, remove the variables."
The feed flickered. Only one silhouette remained: a woman with gold implants around her eyes, the Board's chair, Director Hoshino.
Her voice was calm and cutting.
"You've done well, Rivera. But remember—the system doesn't care about heroes. It cares about momentum. When his story stops selling, so does he."
Santiago inclined his head. "Understood."
The connection severed. The room returned to darkness.
He poured a drink, the ice cracking softly. On his wall, the newest broadcast replayed Zayne smiling beside Nia, friends laughing around them.
Santiago watched it with something like affection, then whispered,"Enjoy it, kid. The system gives before it takes."
He turned off the feed, and the last reflection on the glass was his own smile—sharp, polished, hollow.