"Ladies and gentlemen!"
A shrill voice thundered, bursting with artificial energy, shattering the expectant murmur of the darkness.
In the center of a rusted cage, stained with dried blood, the master of ceremonies strode with the airs of nobility. The ring, encircled by thick bars corroded by time and violence, reeked of old metal, sweat, and death.
Yet the man seemed oblivious. He wore a pristine white suit, cut with elegance and stitched from expensive fabrics. His vest was embroidered with golden threads, and from the pocket of his jacket peeked a perfectly folded silk handkerchief. His shoes gleamed with immaculate polish. Not a single stain, not a wrinkle—no trace of the filth surrounding him.
He looked like a gala host ripped straight from a luxury casino and thrown into the middle of a slaughterhouse.
Around him, dozens of spectators watched from the shadows. Every face was hidden behind a mask: some grotesque, others inspired by ancient rituals, and many little more than stained scraps of cloth. But all shared the same purpose—concealment. No one wished to be recognized in a place like this.
"Welcome," the presenter went on, raising an old microphone that squealed with every word, "to the no man's land we've all dreamed of… where lethal moves, brutal weapons, and even quirks are permitted. Because here, ladies and gentlemen, the only rule is that there are no rules."
"This… is the Clandestine Masquerade."
The bars quivered. The crowd howled like starving beasts catching the scent of blood.
"In the right corner!" he roared, his voice cutting above the frenzy. "The living hammer! The titan with indestructible skin! With a record of twenty-seven victories and only two defeats! An impenetrable fortress… Colossus!"
From a side gate emerged a figure as though forged in a foundry. He stood over two meters tall, his bare torso gleaming with a dull metallic sheen. His steel-gray skin stretched across his body like a living armor. Each step made the ground tremble.
His gaze was cold, mechanical, as if pain or fear were foreign concepts.
The audience greeted him with deafening cheers and roars.
The master of ceremonies spun with a dramatic flourish toward the opposite side.
"And now…" he whispered, lowering his voice as if afraid to rouse a sleeping beast, "in the left corner… the undisputed master of this cage… the roar that heralds death! The undefeated champion! A predator without mercy! I give you… Wildclaw!"
A deep, guttural roar shook the arena.
From the opposite tunnel prowled a monstrous tiger. Its fur, streaked with black and dark green stripes, shimmered beneath the dim light. Its neck, thick as a tree trunk, was shackled by an iron collar from which heavy chains hung.
Two burly men strained to drag them, though it was clear they barely restrained the beast. The tiger advanced with slow, deliberate steps. Its piercing yellow eyes scanned the ring with feral intelligence.
The men released the chains and retreated, knowing they had crossed a threshold with no return.
Wildclaw did not roar. He did not thrash. He simply walked, the brutal elegance of a predator in absolute control. His muscles rippled beneath his pelt like taut cords. The audience's anticipation grew unbearable as he placed his first claw inside the circle.
The two combatants locked eyes. For a heartbeat, the crowd fell silent.
The master of ceremonies had already abandoned the ring. No one wished to remain when the slaughter began.
A sharp bell rang.
And the cage slammed shut.
For an instant, neither moved.
Until Colossus stepped forward, his knuckles cracking like dry branches. Wildclaw held his ground, his gaze fixed on his foe, betraying neither fear nor anxiety. He only waited. Calculated. Hunted.
And then—hell erupted.
Colossus charged like a human locomotive, his right fist raised to smash an invisible wall. The tiger slipped aside with a grace no creature of such size should possess. The titan's punch crashed into the floor, making the cage quake. Rust and dust burst in every direction.
Wildclaw spun with a roar, his claws raking across his opponent's flank. Four crimson lines scored the titan's metallic skin—shallow, but real. Colossus growled. He had never imagined a claw could pierce his armor.
He answered with a brutal elbow, aiming to shatter the beast's skull. But Wildclaw propelled himself backward with his powerful legs, evading in the final instant. Then, with explosive force, he lunged forward, hurling his entire body like an avalanche of muscle and bone.
The impact tore Colossus from the ground.
The titan flew through the air, slamming into the bars with a dull, sickening thud. The audience erupted—some cheering, others groaning. No unanimous side existed. Only a collective hunger for more blood.
Colossus rose at once, a thin line of blood trickling from his lips. The twisted grin on his face was no longer human.
"Damn beast!" Colossus snarled, raising both arms. "Now I see why they fear you!"
Wildclaw answered with a deafening roar and lunged again.
What followed was a bloody ballet. The titan hurled blows strong enough to pulverize concrete, but the tiger dodged them with nightmarish precision, countering with swipes aimed at the vulnerable spots: the throat, the joints, the eyes.
At one point, Wildclaw leapt on Colossus, slamming him to the ground. A sickening crunch rang out as the beast's jaws clamped down on the man's forearm. Yet no scream followed. Instead, Colossus raised his free hand and drove his thumb into the tiger's left eye.
The roar that erupted was a fusion of agony and pure, unbridled fury.
Wildclaw recoiled at once, thrashing his head violently, a thin trickle of blood seeping from his ruined eye.
Colossus staggered back to his feet with difficulty. His arm was all but useless for the rest of the fight, deep tooth marks carved into the flesh. His torso was slashed open in several places, bleeding heavily.
Both men wavered. Both bled. Both gasped for breath. And still, neither yielded.
Wildclaw roared once more and leapt.
Colossus caught him with his only good arm, letting himself fall backward, trapping the beast with his legs in a desperate maneuver. They rolled across the ground—a frenzied knot of muscle, dust, blood, and roars.
Somewhere in that brutal dance, the titan managed to pin the tiger beneath him and unleashed a storm of punches upon its skull. One. Two. Three. Four. His fists pounded in a rhythm almost musical, the cage itself reverberating with each impact.
The crowd erupted—some stood screaming, others hurled objects into the air, intoxicated by the violence.
But the tiger, though dazed, still had strength left.
With a guttural snarl, it dug its claws into the man's sides and twisted with monstrous force, hurling him into the air as though he weighed no more than a rag doll.
Colossus hit the ground with a thunderous crash.
A sharp, bone-snapping crack echoed through the cage as his back struck the floor. The sound was so raw, so visceral, that many in the audience froze, breath caught in their throats, convinced it was the end. Even the bloodthirstiest fell silent for an instant.
Wildclaw did not move immediately. He held his ground, back arched, limbs taut. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, each breath a battle. Yet his gaze never left the man, watching, waiting.
Colossus stirred at last.
He coughed, spat red-tinged saliva, and with inhuman slowness began to rise. His face was twisted with pain, caked in sweat, blood, and grime. The armor that once shielded him like a second skin was shattered, reduced to dangling fragments. Blood poured freely from his battered body—torso torn open, arms shredded, legs barely holding him.
But he rose.
Defiant. Broken… yet standing. In his eyes burned an indomitable spark, a fury that refused defeat.
He took a step.
Slow. Trembling.
Then another.
But on the third, his knees betrayed him.
His body collapsed in an instant, crashing down without control. A strangled groan of frustration escaped his throat. He clenched his teeth, his fists, struggling to rise again… but his body refused. His vision blurred. He tried to move… but nothing remained.
The audience fell into silence.
And then, Wildclaw roared.
So loud it seemed to tear the very air apart, a wave of primal fury that shook the cage to its foundations. Some spectators recoiled instinctively, hands over their ears, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it. Others shrieked in ecstasy, caught between terror and awe.
From the shadows, the master of ceremonies spoke the words everyone craved to hear:
"Technical knockout… victory to Wildclaw!"
…
The hallway was silent.
That wasn't unusual. The place had been designed not only to keep out the curious, but also to make sure that no one—absolutely no one—could leave without permission.
Far from the roar of the crowd, the strobing lights, and the suffocating heat of the spectacle, only the faint echoes of boots on damp concrete and the intermittent buzz of the overhead industrial lamps remained.
The master of ceremonies advanced with measured steps, cane in hand. His white suit, now hidden beneath a long coat, was still as immaculate as he was. Not even the puddles of dirty water touched his shoes; he seemed to float above the decay, a creature untouched by the misery surrounding him.
At the end of the corridor, two guards stood waiting in front of a reinforced door. The black tungsten door were etched with sigils, seared into the metal, still glowing faintly in the dim light.
One of the guards recognized him and nodded silently.
"Is he calm?" the master asked, not bothering to look at the man.
"He hasn't said a word since he came back," the guard answered nervously. "He transformed the moment the fight was over."
The master nodded slowly, thoughtful. "Was he given his meal?"
"Of course," the guard replied at once. "But… I'm afraid he's resisting more. Stronger every time. We don't know how much longer the sedatives will work."
The man didn't answer immediately. He only walked toward the door, and the guard, obedient, opened it.
On the other side of the room, sitting on a thin cot, was a child. Barefoot. Skinny. His torso wrapped in filthy bandages, his skin still mottled with fresh bruises. He couldn't have been older than nine, though his eyes carried a weight that didn't belong to his body. One was nearly swollen shut. The other stared, unblinking, intense. Inhuman.
"Good evening, champion," the master greeted, his usual theatrical voice softened now, more intimate, as if sharing a secret.
The boy didn't respond. He only stared. Silent. Motionless. Like a beast still caged, even in human form.
"You were magnificent tonight," the man continued, pacing in front of the bars as though appraising a priceless object. "The crowd chanted your name long after you left the cage. Wildclaw… Wildclaw… Wildclaw…"
He paused. Tilted his head.
"But that's not your real name, is it? Does it bother you when they call you that? Or have you already accepted it?"
The boy said nothing. A fly buzzed close to his face, and he didn't even blink.
The master sighed. His smile faltered, just a little.
"When I found you, you were nothing but a wild animal. No control. No name. And now, you've defeated the strongest man I've ever thrown into that cage. But you didn't just beat him… you broke him. Do you know what that means?"
The silence stretched, uncomfortable, heavy.
Then, at last, the boy spoke. His voice was low, raspy, as if each word scraped its way out of his throat.
"I don't want to fight anymore."
The master stopped. Studied him carefully, weighing the words before replying. "That's unfortunate," he said at last, with a sweetness that almost sounded genuine. "But people come to see you. They enjoy the show you give them. You know that, don't you?"
The boy clenched his fists. Lowered his gaze.
"I want to leave…"
A slow, bitter smile curved the master of ceremonies' lips. This time, it never reached his eyes. "And I would love a world where money grew on trees… but we don't live in that world, boy."
He turned without waiting for a reply, the soft tapping of his cane marking the rhythm of his departure.
Before disappearing through the door, he addressed the guards, his tone firm, stripped of emotion:
"Call the doctor. I want him in perfect condition. In two nights, he'll have a new opponent."
And with that, he left, the distant echo of his footsteps lingering in the dark.
…
The moment he woke, the pain came rushing back.
It didn't matter what medical care they had given him—bandages, injections, whatever else—they never worked. The pain lingered, sharp and searing. The wounds from his last fight had been worse than usual. Especially the one in his eye.
He lifted a trembling hand to the bandage covering the left side of his face. It was still oozing. The burn was constant, and every time he blinked with his good eye, a sharp tug reminded him that the other was still there, not healed, not forgotten.
But it didn't matter. No one cared about his condition. The only thing they wanted from him was to step back into the ring. He didn't want to, but it was his only option—and the worst part was that the time was almost here again.
He let himself fall back on the bed with a ragged sigh. The mattress—if it could be called that—was worn down, torn in places by age and abuse. Beneath the ripped fabric, hardened fibers and cold metal poked through. Despite the miserable state of it, he didn't care. Nothing mattered.
That's when he noticed it.
There was no light.
No irritating flicker from the fluorescent overhead. No constant electric hum that usually filled the cell with its monotonous vibration.
Just darkness. And then… silence.
But not the usual kind, thick and muffled with distant voices, cries, or shouts echoing faintly through heavy walls. This was different. This silence was hollow. It swallowed even the sound of his own breathing.
Slowly, uneasily, he pushed himself upright. His body protested with every joint, every battered muscle, but he ignored it. He forced himself to move, step by step, until he reached the bars of his cell. His legs felt like they carried a sack of stones.
He pressed a hand to the cold iron and leaned his face against it, straining to hear something—anything—beyond the corridor.
Nothing.
No voices.
No radios.
No barked orders.
Not even the creak of a door.
"Hello?" he rasped.
His voice bounced back off the walls, dry, empty. No answer. He tried again, louder, but the echo was the only reply. That's when he realized something was wrong—terribly wrong.
He held his breath. His heart hammered, more out of instinct than fear. Real fear had been beaten out of him a long time ago. All that remained was survival.
He shut his eyes for a moment. Drew in a deep breath.
And change.
His bones cracked with a wet, visceral sound. Flesh stretched and twisted. Nails lengthened into claws. The bandage tore with the rhythm of the mutation. It hurt, yes—but it was familiar. More natural than the human skin he had been born with.
The massive tiger turned toward the door, now more beast than boy. He clenched his fists—or rather, his claws—and struck.
The first blow landed with a dry crack.
The second was harder, driven by desperation and pent-up rage. Metal rang through the corridor, echoing like a sinister bell. The lock shuddered, just slightly, but enough to give him hope.
He rammed his shoulder against it again, and again, each impact more brutal than the last. The reinforced door, old and weary, began to give.
And with one final, savage strike, the lock burst apart. The door groaned, swung open a hand's width, then crashed sideways, left dangling by a single broken hinge.
He didn't stop moving. The corridor was drowned in darkness, broken only by the flicker of emergency lights. The air still reeked of rusted metal and faint ozone, but now there was something else: smoke.
He moved cautiously, gliding through the shadows, every heightened sense straining at its limit. Turning a corner, he froze.
Just ahead, where the access to the ring usually began, the spectacle he had always known was gone. The guards lay scattered on the ground—some unconscious, others… not moving at all.
Farther on, between the pillars and reinforced doors, came the echoes of clipped voices, sharp and commanding, mingled with the crackle of electric weapons and the thunder of boots striking concrete.
A dozen armed men, clad in dark tactical gear with helmets and opaque visors hiding their faces, advanced with military precision down the corridors. They moved in formation, covering one another, checking doors, smashing some open with calculated strikes.
One of them—perhaps the leader—spoke with authority into the comm unit fixed to his helmet:
"Alpha team, clear the east wing. If you locate Quirk users, report immediately. Do not engage without backup."
Police.
Instinctively, his body went rigid, pressed half-hidden in the shadow cast by a broken pipe overhead. A growl boiled in his throat, but he swallowed it. He didn't trust them. He couldn't.
The last time he had tried to escape this hell, a pair of officers had been his final hope. He screamed for them, begged them for help. For a moment, he believed they would save him. But they hadn't.
They knew what was going on about all of this. They were in on it. Maybe they always had been.
How else could something like this exist right in the heart of the city? Police, organizers, doctors… a whole machine of grinding gears. The corruption probably climbed far higher than he could imagine.
So he wouldn't risk it. Not this time.
He slipped back silently, retreating toward a gap in the wall where an old electrical panel had been torn out. The space was narrow, barely enough to fit him, but in his altered form he could bend and fold beyond human limits. He slid inside soundlessly. From there, he watched.
The agents marched past. One stopped nearby, turning his head as if he had sensed something. His body went cold; he held his breath, heart hammering in his chest. A direct confrontation was the last thing he wanted.
The officer stared for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the adjoining hallway.
"Anything?" another asked, approaching.
"No… nothing. Move on."
And they did.
Still, he didn't move until their footsteps faded into the distance. Only then did he slip from his hiding place. If he was going to escape, he had to be careful. The main entrance was out of the question. So was the back.
He had only one way out in mind.
Quickly, he slid down the left passage, deeper into one of the service tunnels, then another. For anyone else, squeezing through these ducts would have been impossible, but he knew them better than anyone. This prison was his territory.
For once, maybe luck was on his side. He met no one—only distant gunfire, shouts, and overlapping orders cutting through the chaos.
Nothing stopped him. Until he found it: a rusted hatch leading to the drainage system.
He had tried to force it open before, on other nights, always in vain. But this time it wasn't sealed. Someone else had opened it. He didn't care who.
He dropped down through it, the cold splash of stagnant water striking his feet. The tunnel was dark, narrow—but to his eyes, it was brighter than the world above: a direct path to freedom.