Mikey held on, every tendon screaming as he fought the bear's bite, the sniper creaking between his hands. His vision darted, frantic, searching for anything, any tool to survive. At his side, half-buried in dust and blood, he spotted a jagged length of steel—a broken bar from the cage, bent loose when the beast had smashed through.
With a desperate roar, Mikey shifted his left hand to the middle of the rifle, barely keeping the bear's jaws from closing. His right hand snapped free and seized the bar. Without thinking, without breathing, he drove it upward with every ounce of strength he had left. The metal spiked into the Blood Bear's ear.
The monster shrieked, the sound like tearing iron, and flung itself off him in agony. Mikey stumbled up with it, forcing the bar deeper into its skull. His body trembled, his hands slick with sweat and blood, but he pressed on, leaning all his weight forward. The beast toppled onto its side, writhing in pain, thrashing violently against the floorboards. Mikey raised his boot and stomped down on the protruding metal. The bar sank deeper with a sickening crunch, and the creature stilled, growling low before going motionless.
The crowd erupted, a wave of cheers crashing through the dome. People leapt to their feet, shouting his name, screaming for victory. And yet in the pit, Mikey didn't believe it for a second. He knew better—he knew the fight wasn't done.
Breathing ragged, Mikey staggered back, his left leg dragging uselessly. Blood slicked down through his torn cargo pants, pattering the sand with each limping step. He bent low, scooping up his battered sniper where it had skidded across the floor. His chest heaved, ribs burning with each inhale.
He limped into a jog, forcing space between himself and the beast. The cage wreckage lay twisted at the center of the arena, the Blood Bear's body slumped beside it. Mikey stopped just shy of the wall, sweat dripping down his face, and tore the bottom hem of his shirt with shaking hands. He dropped to one knee, yanked his pant leg up, and wrapped the fabric tight around the wound.
"Ahh—fuck…" He hissed between his teeth, the burn of it so sharp it made his vision flicker.
Ten seconds of silence. Just ten. Then the monster stirred awake.
The Blood Bear rose, shaking itself like nothing more than a boxer dazed between rounds. The bar still jutted grotesquely from its head, yet its glossy red eyes glowed hotter than ever. It sniffed the air, found Mikey's scent, and fixed its glare on him once more. Mikey steadied his sniper. His back was nearly against the stands now, the crowd a wall of faces above him. There was no more room to run.
'Okay… okay… it's gonna charge. I can't outrun it. Not like this. Gotta stall it. Gotta hit the head again, buy myself seconds… figure this out later.'
The bear broke in a sprint. In response Mikey racked the slide, exhaled, fired.
BANG!
The round struck its shoulder. Nothing happened, the beast didn't even slow, not even for a second. He drew a deeper breath, tried to still his shaking hands, aimed higher.
BANG!
The bullet slammed into its chest. The Blood Bear powered through like it had been tapped with a stone. The panic inside him climbed. It was closing fast—too fast. He had one shot left before it was on him. He focused, adjusted, squeezed—
BANG!
The bullet clipped the side of its skull, grazing past. A trickle of blood and nothing more, then the shadow fell over him. The Blood Bear lowered its tusks and crashed into him with the force of a freight train. Its head snapped up with a violent flick, and Mikey's body launched skyward like a rag doll. The beast didn't stop, momentum carrying it headfirst into the wall. The impact shook the entire section of stands above, plaster cracking and dust raining from the ceiling. The crowd screamed, half in awe, half in terror. Mikey flipped in the air from the hit, helpless, his limbs slack. Then gravity claimed him. He slammed into the floor flat on his back, all the air leaving his lungs in one suffocating instant.
"AHH—! Fuhh—ck!" His voice was a broken wheeze.
He rolled slightly, coughing, gagging, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. Pain carved through every rib, his vision blurred and doubled. He stared upward at the arena lights, bright and blinding, halos stretching across his fading sight. Above the roar of the crowd, his friends' voices dimmed, swallowed into background noise, like sound vanishing underwater. Behind him, the Blood Bear slumped against the wall, rubble tumbling down its shoulders. Its faint growl reverberated, but Mikey barely heard it anymore.
Time slowed and his eyelids grew heavy.
'Mom… Dad… I don't know if I can do this… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm—'
---
"I'm sorry, okay?"
A memory rushed unbidden, sharp and clear.
Two years ago, a sixteen-year-old Mikey sat slouched at the long dining table of his father's penthouse in Sector C of the Capital. His hair was cropped short back then, his uniform collar undone. The city's neon glow spilled through the glass walls, painting the marble floors in shifting blues and pinks. Across the room, his father leaned against the kitchen island, bald head glinting under the warm light.
"That still doesn't explain why you're failing your classes," Desmond Grant said, his tone stern but not cruel.
"I'm sorry," young Mikey muttered, eyes down, voice dismissive.
"That's not gonna cut it, son."
Desmond exhaled, his jaw tight. He pushed away from the island, crossed the kitchen, and placed one steady hand on the table before leaning in closer. His voice softened, deliberate.
"I talked to your teacher. She sent me your Science and Biology test. You got a fifty percent."
Mikey shrugged.
"So? I know it's bad. Like I said, I'm sorry."
Desmond chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
"I'm not finished. You got a fifty percent, sure—but that's not the problem. That's not why I'm upset."
Mikey frowned, waiting, whilst his father's eyes sharpened.
"I looked closer. You got one right, then one wrong, then right, then one wrong. Over and over again. A hundred randomized questions, and you followed the same pattern fifty times. Do you know how hard that is to do by chance?"
Mikey hesitated a moment.
"Uh… not super likely?"
"Not just unlikely, it's basically impossible. It's almost zero." Desmond's voice was calm, but his gaze cut deep. "And maybe, just maybe, I'd believe you just got lucky—if you hadn't pulled the same exact trick in math class. One time, it's a fluke... twice, it's a pattern. You knew the answers. You turned a hundred percent into fifty, but in all actuality, that fifty percent is really a hundred percent."
The silence hung heavy. Desmond's words fell quieter, but heavier.
"I'm not upset because you failed, Mikey. I'm upset because you tried to fail on purpose. Why, son? Why?"
Mikey knew he had been caught. There was no way around it. He sighed, shoulders sagging.
"Fine… fine, you got me. I just—I just don't want to be eligible for the High Council job."
Desmond's sternness softened at once, his eyes narrowing not in anger but in curiosity.
"Why not?"
Mikey hesitated, shifting in his chair. "Because… I don't know, you're gonna think it's stupid…" He glanced up, but his father's gaze was steady, patient, the kind of stare that told him it was safe to speak. "…people have these expectations of me, Dad. That I'll be like you or like Mom... But I'm not—and it scares the hell out of me. I look at you, and where the rest of the world sees this brilliant, unstoppable politician, I just see a wall I can't climb, an unbeatable obstacle. As terrible as that sounds… And Mom? She was… perfect in her own way too. I can't live up to either of you... I'm just me."
For a moment Desmond said nothing, and then he chuckled softly to himself, shaking his bald head as if Mikey had just missed the punchline of a joke only fathers knew. His voice dropped into that tone he always carried when he really wanted Mikey to listen—low, firm, and warm.
"You're just you, huh? What's your last name, Mikey?"
Mikey blinked.
"Uh… Grant."
"Exactly. So is mine. So was your mother's." Desmond's lips curved into a grin that was equal parts proud and reassuring. "You are an extension of us, son. You're a damn Grant. No matter what anyone says, no one can take that from you. And do you know what Grants do?"
Mikey tilted his head, cautious.
"…What?"
"When there's an obstacle in front of us—something everyone swears is impossible, something that should break us—we don't quit. We don't curl up and wait for mercy. We dig our teeth in, and we trudge forward. We use our heads to think of a way through the wall in front us…" He tapped his immaculate bald dome, the gesture making Mikey snort despite himself. "…and we use our hearts to keep pushing until that wall finally cracks. Nothing, and I mean nothing, stops us from getting what we want out of this life. So you're worried you can't live up to expectations? Maybe the world's, maybe.. even my own? That's fine, but when the moment comes and the impossible stares you down—stay calm. Remember who you are. You're a Grant and most importantly, you're my son. You're my baby boy."
Desmond reached out and tugged gently at Mikey's ear. Mikey laughed, trying to swat him away, but his father just flashed his big white grin, proud as ever.
"And that's all you ever need to be. That's all I want you to be. If you don't want my path, don't take it—it's yours to choose. Fail, fall, start over, doesn't matter. But if you do want it… then take it with both hands and don't let anyone stop you."
Mikey chewed on that, staring at the table, then muttered under his breath, "I'll resubmit my tests. I'll make sure I get a hundred."
Desmond smiled like that was all he'd been waiting to hear. He moved behind his son, leaned down, and wrapped him in a hug over the shoulder, tapping his palm softly against Mikey's chest.
"Good. That's what I like to hear. Love you, kiddo."
Mikey tilted his head to look up at him, a soft smile flickering across his younger face.
"Yeah… love you too, old man."
---
In the present, Mikey felt his lips twitch upward. Despite the blood in his mouth and the ache in every bone, despite the roar of the crowd and the looming shadow of death, he smiled. For the first time in phase one, he wasn't just surviving—he remembered who he was.
The bear was still slumped against the wall, stunned for now but already beginning to stir. Its breaths rattled through the dome, slow and heavy, promising violence the moment it rose again. The crowd whispered in a mix of dread and awe, his make-shift family leaned forward in silence, waiting to see if Mikey would rise or crumble. Mikey pushed himself upright, every nerve screaming in protest, his leg still wrapped in the crude bandage of his shirt. Pain flared sharp, but he welcomed it—it reminded him he was still alive.
He looked at the beast and then at the rifle in his hand. For the first time, the fear in his chest wasn't suffocating. Instead, there was something steadier, something his dad had planted years ago that still burned like an ember inside him. This was the obstacle, the wall, the impossible barrier he had feared all those years ago.
But he was a Grant.
His grin widened through bloodied teeth. "Alright, you ugly bastard," he whispered to himself, eyes locked on the Blood Bear. "Let's do this..."