The lights are wrong. A raw, hot white that cooks the skin on his shoulders and chest. It doesn't just illuminate; it exposes.
He can feel the eyes on him, hundreds of them. A cold, crawling weight on his exposed flesh.
The air is different. Not the familiar sterile tang of the lab, but dry, circulated air thick with perfume and the faint, coppery scent of anticipation.
The display plate beneath him hums. Rotates.
Slow.
So every sick bastard gets a good look.
As the rig turns, something new comes into his field of vision.
Not a machine. Not a weapon.
A man.
Strapped to a simple steel chair bolted to the floor, just a few feet away. Dressed not in a lab coat, but in his own street clothes, now rumpled and stained.
Elen.
His face is pale, his eyes wide with a silent, primal terror. He isn't looking at the crowd. He's looking at Kaizen.
The message is clear. He's not a guest.
He's an exhibit.
The next one.
Vahr mutters, "These restraints aren't standard issue... Who prepped this setup?"
A tech glances at a handheld. "Request came through mainline. Clearance code reads... Central authorization."
Vahr frowns. "Since when does Central handle stage logistics?"
No one answers.
Doesn't matter.
He sighs. Flicks the mic. The performance resumes.
"Subject K. Post-override stabilization phase. Current compliance: 79%."
Vahr's voice. Oily and proud.
The word hits him. Compliance. A whip-crack in his skull.
Hate, pure and cold, floods his veins. But now it's focused. Sharpened by the sight of Elen. The one who tried. The one they caught.
"As you can see," Vahr continues, his voice oozing satisfaction, "the subject is completely docile. After this demonstration, we have a small… personnel matter to attend to. A live showcase on the consequences of misplaced sympathy."
Laughter from the crowd. Low and cruel.
They know. Elen knows.
And now, Kaizen knows.
Not today.
"Subject will now undergo combat-response testing."
A door hisses.
The stench hits him. Rot and formaldehyde.
A broken toy, wired for a cheap thrill. It slams into him, a pointless impact.
He hears the claps from the crowd.
The creature's blade-arm swings.
He moves.
His arm snakes out. He catches the limb.
And squeezes.
A wet pop.
The sound of thick bone shattering. He feels it give way in his hand, turning to a gritty paste inside the skin. Hot, black fluid sprays his knuckles.
The creature shrieks, a sound of disbelief.
Kaizen twists his wrist. Hard.
The shriek dies. The thing crumples.
Dead silence.
The silence breaks.
Screams. Panic.
This was not part of the show.
He roars.
The sound tears from a throat that has been silent for years.
He rips the data-tubes from his spine. The pain is a clean, white fire. He owns it. Blood, hot and thick, streams down his back.
He's on his feet before the first alarm blares.
His first move isn't toward the crowd.
It's toward the chair.
He smashes the simple leather restraints holding Elen's wrists. They snap like twigs.
Elen flinches back, gasping, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
There's no time.
Kaizen turns toward the observation deck. The glass separating the beasts from their keepers.
He rips the blindplate from his face.
Light. Colors. The terrified faces of his tormentors.
He sees everything.
"SHUT IT DOWN! PROTOCOL—"
He smashes through the glass.
It explodes. The sound is a roar of its own.
His bare feet land on the deck, the crunch of broken glass under his weight a satisfying percussion.
He grabs a tech. Doesn't say a word.
He slams the man's face into the steel railing.
The first impact is a solid thud.
The second is a sharp crack.
The third is a wet, pulpy sound.
He lets the body drop. A red smear on pristine steel.
He moves through the panicked crowd like a reaper through wheat. A body thrown here, a skull cracked there.
It's not a fight. It's a harvest.
He sees Vahr, near the exit, his face a mask of disbelief and rage.
Not yet. He'll save him for last.
He leaps back down to the arena floor, landing beside the still-frozen Elen. He yanks him to his feet. Elen stumbles, his legs barely working.
Kaizen gets in his face, his voice a low, grinding growl of rust and fury.
"You said… messy."
Elen can only stare, his whole body shaking. He manages a single, jerky nod.
KLAXON. KLAXON. KLAXON.
The alarms scream.
Heavy steel doors slam shut. Gas hisses from the ceiling.
And the mechs drop.
Heavy, purposeful thuds as they hit the floor. Their red optic sensors flicker to life.
Kaizen shoves Elen behind him.
He looks at the machines. At the gas. At the locked doors.
And for the first time in years, he smiles.
It is a baring of teeth. A promise.
"Good."
And he turns to face them.