VOID FIST HQ — BOARD SECTOR 3
The elevator doors opened to glass, light, and silence.Zayne stepped into it like he was walking into a memory that didn't belong to him.
Every wall shimmered with live feeds—fighters training, sponsors smiling, fans screaming his name in gold ticker text across the bottom.Every smile looked rehearsed. Even his.
Nia walked beside him, tablet in hand, expression locked in neutral professionalism. She'd tied her hair back and traded her leather jacket for a tailored blazer that still didn't feel like her. The lanyard around her neck flashed Handler Clearance: Tier One.
Zayne smirked. "You look like you hate that."
"I do," she said. "Try not to mention it in front of the Board."
They stopped in front of a massive door rimmed with brass and etched with the Void Fist emblem. It pulsed faintly, reacting to the chip in his wristband.
"Zayne Ward, authenticated," the system announced."Meeting in progress. Please maintain composure."
He exhaled. "That's new."
Nia's voice softened. "It's all new. Don't let them get in your head."
The door split open.
The boardroom looked less like a meeting space and more like a temple.A circular table of black glass hovered midair, light veins running through it like circuitry. Around it sat nine figures—corporate saints watching from their pedestals of profit.
At the far end, Santiago stood, perfect as ever, hands folded behind his back.He smiled when he saw Zayne.
"Mr. Ward," Santiago said. "Our miracle in the flesh."
Zayne ignored the bait and took his seat. The chair adjusted automatically, locking him upright.
Nia sat beside him, posture coiled tight.
Director Hoshino—the woman from Santiago's call—leaned forward.Her eyes gleamed faint gold, implants whirring softly as they focused. "Mr. Ward," she said, voice smooth and cold. "First, congratulations on maintaining an eighty-eight-match streak. You've exceeded all projections."
"Thanks," he said. "Glad I could… meet expectations."
She smiled faintly. "We don't expect. We design."
A low hum filled the room as a holographic document materialized between them—paragraphs of text, scrolling endlessly downward.
VOID FIST PERFORMANCE CONTRACT 2.0 — TERMS & CONDITIONS
"Due to your popularity," Hoshino continued, "we're transitioning you to an integrated system—a merge between fighter instinct and adaptive AI. It will analyze your neural output and refine your combat decisions in real time. Efficiency increases, audience retention grows, and injury risk decreases by thirty percent."
Zayne's brow furrowed. "You want to put something in my head?"
"In your wrist," Santiago corrected. "A harmless enhancement. Think of it as—training, but smarter."
Nia's jaw tightened. "It's a leash."
Santiago chuckled. "You always did have a flair for dramatics, Vale."
"It's invasive," she said. "You're crossing into behavioral control. The neural link you establish with the headset is bad enough already."
Hoshino folded her hands. "We prefer 'optimization.' And we are doing away with the headsets that was before we went mainstream, now our auidence prefer a more real approach."
Zayne stared at the projected contract. Lines of legal code scrolled like static—clauses referencing mandatory compliance, emotional synchronization, and corporate oversight.
He stopped at one line:
'The fighter consents to algorithmic modulation of neural and emotional response during live broadcast.'
His voice dropped. "Modulation?"
Hoshino didn't blink. "It means the audience gets the best version of you—focused, fearless, marketable. In exchange, you get higher payouts, reduced physical damage, and lifetime sponsorship."
Zayne looked up. "And if I refuse?"
Santiago smiled like he'd been waiting for that question.
"Then you sit out. Your contract freezes. Credits freeze. The brand moves on. Maybe Riley fills your slot—she's promising, by the way. Her numbers are climbing."
The air went sharp. Nia's hand brushed his under the table, a silent breath.
He looked back at Hoshino. "You said this is optional."
"For now," she said. "But heroes adapt. That's why they last."
A stylus drifted toward him across the table, silver tip glinting in the light.The contract pulsed, waiting.
Santiago leaned closer. "Come on, Ward. You fought the void and won. This is just learning to fight smarter. Imagine—no hesitation, no fear, no pain. Just you at your best, forever."
Zayne stared at the pen. His chest tightened. For a second, he saw the reflection of his own face on the glass table—perfect, smiling, branded.
He heard Nia's voice again, from the night before:
"If I ever stop being me, tell me. Even if it hurts."
He pushed the pen away.
"I fight my way," he said quietly. "Or I don't fight at all."
The silence was absolute.
Santiago's smile barely twitched, but his eyes sharpened. "Careful, boy. You're starting to sound ungrateful."
"I'm starting to sound human," he said.
Nia stood. "Meeting's over."
Hoshino's voice cut through like ice. "Very well. But remember—momentum doesn't stop. If you won't move forward, someone else will."
The room dimmed, contract fading.
As they turned to leave, Santiago called out, soft but poisonous:
"You just delayed the inevitable. The system always gets what it wants."
Zayne didn't answer. He just walked faster.
VOID FIST TRAINING BAY 09
The room was all metal and light—no shadows allowed.Sensors mapped every movement, holographic limbs flickering into existence around him like ghosts of opponents past.
Zayne wrapped his hands and stepped into the center ring. The hum of the platform vibrated through his ribs.
"Simulation parameters?" the system asked.
"Street rules," he said. "No algorithm assists."
"Acknowledged. Manual mode engaged."
The projection flared alive. Ten opponents—programmed to mimic the old underground fights before corporate tuning—closed in.
Zayne moved.
His body remembered what his mind had almost forgotten: how to hurt without choreography.
Sweat hit the mat. The gloves whined from stress. Every punch landed with a sound too human for the clean walls surrounding him.
He trained until his lungs begged for mercy and the floor glistened under his feet.
When the system asked if he wished to continue, he just said, "No," and walked out.
"Zayne, where are you going?"
"I'm going home, Nia... I need to think."
The city stretched beneath the car as it slipped onto the expressway.Rain streaked across the windshield like static, neon light breaking into fractured colors.
At first, everything around them glittered—high towers of glass and gold, floating billboards looping his name in endless rotation.Each letter burned brighter than the street below.
The autopilot lane curved them through Echelon Row, where sky apartments hung like ornaments above the clouds. Pedestrians wore chrome exosuits and carried drinks that cost more than Zayne's first apartment rent. Every corner screamed polish, every reflection another version of him smiling back.
But the farther they drove, the darker the skyline became.
The roads dipped lower.
The air changed texture—thicker, heavier, filled with the pulse of machinery and wet ozone.
The towers grew shorter, the lights grew colder, and the shine gave way to scaffolding and grime. The car's display flickered, rerouting past broken zones the system no longer maintained.
They passed a cluster of billboards still showing his face, but the holograms glitched—half-lit, colors bleeding. On one, his mouth moved out of sync with his eyes.
He stared out the window.
"Funny," he muttered. "Same city. Feels like two different planets."
When the skyline finally cracked open to show the Baton District, Zayne turned off autopilot. He took the wheel himself, guiding them down through the layered smog and steel veins of the lower levels.
The transition was instant.
Clean roads turned to cracked concrete.
Luxury shuttles vanished, replaced by cargo bikes and open-air markets under flickering light. People didn't look up here—they just moved, fast and quiet, like survival had a schedule.
The rain intensified.
By the time the car rolled to a stop at the curb, the glow from the higher districts was just a memory fading in the smog.
Zayne stepped out of the car, the smell of trash and mud filling his nose.
Rain turned the alleys slick and mirror-bright.
The air smelled of rust, noodles, and the kind of electricity that comes from wires patched one too many times.
This was home once.
His footprints still existed here somewhere—faded under years of grime. He passed the same bodega that used to let him sleep by the back door.
The same corner where he'd shadowbox under flickering signs. The same noise of lives too busy surviving to dream.
Now people glanced up and whispered when he passed. Some smiled, some just stared.
They recognized the face from the screens, but not the man who used to beg those same streets for work shifts.
He ducked into a small grocery store, bells chiming as he entered.
The light was warm, yellow instead of white. The floor creaked. A fan ticked lazily in the ceiling.
He walked to the back cooler, grabbed a bottle of Ryn Cola, and took a deep breath before twisting it open.
"—you're him."
A voice, small but certain.
Zayne turned.
A boy stood at the end of the aisle—maybe twelve, jacket too big, shoes taped at the toes. He clutched an old Void Fist VR headset, missing half its casing.
Zayne smiled faintly. "Depends who you ask."
"You're Zayne Ward," the boy said, eyes wide. "My brother said you came from down here. He said you used to fight for real, not for credits."
Zayne leaned on the cooler door. "Your brother's not wrong."
The kid hesitated, then blurted, "How'd you get out?"
The question hit harder than any punch.
Zayne looked at the cracked floor tiles, then back at the boy. "Didn't. Still trying."
He reached into his pocket, pulled up his wristband, and keyed a quick transfer.The air between them shimmered as numbers appeared on the boy's wrist display.
+35,000 CREDITS.
The kid froze.Then his breath hitched. "Is— is this real?"
Zayne nodded. "Real as it gets."
Tears welled instantly. "Sir, I— I can't— this is— that's more money than my dad made in five years!"
"Then don't waste it," Zayne said softly. "Fix your shoes. Eat right. Maybe get a rig that isn't broken. And when they tell you what you can't be—"
He crouched, meeting the boy's eyes.
"—remember you don't owe the system a damn thing."
The boy nodded fast, trembling, clutching the digital confirmation like a sacred text.
Zayne stood, finished his drink, and set the empty bottle on the counter. "Keep the change," he told the clerk, who was still staring.
When he stepped back outside, the rain had stopped. The city's noise swallowed him again, but for the first time all night, it didn't sound so hollow.
Up above, on a billboard flickering against the clouds, his own face smiled down—bright, perfect, untouchable.
Zayne looked up once, then pulled his hood over his head and walked away into the neon.
The billboard's slogan burned through the mist behind him:
ZAYNE WARD – THE FUTURE FIGHTS HERE
STREAK 90-0
He didn't look back.