Chapter 5 — Playing with People's Hearts
"Beautiful. That combo jab was divine."
The Fixer's voice carried a mix of admiration and greed as he lowered his drink and leaned forward in his seat. His cybernetic eye whirred, refocusing on the ring below.
Down in the cage, Xen was still catching his breath. Sweat slicked his body like oil under the neon lights. His opponent lay sprawled on the floor — another victim of the kid's unnervingly sharp timing. That last sequence — the Antelope Skip followed by a three-hit combination — had been clean, clinical, and devastating.
Victor chuckled beside the Fixer, his deep voice a rumble of old pride. "That kid's got instincts. He's not just swinging; he's reading movement, adapting. I don't see that often."
"Sure," the Fixer replied, eyes still locked on Xen. "But instincts burn out. Endurance doesn't lie. How many more you think he's got in him before he starts breaking apart?"
Victor's gaze softened as he watched Xen take another slow sip from his water bottle, chest rising and falling. "Hard to say. He's already been in there half an hour. That's thirteen rounds straight — and he's still standing."
Below, Xen sat on the stool in the corner of the ring, towel draped over his shoulders, jaw tight. The roar of the crowd rolled around him like a storm. He had already flattened nearly a dozen fighters — each one more desperate than the last.
Even so, Victor noticed the small tells: the slower footwork, the shallower breathing, the subtle stiffness in the kid's shoulders. The adrenaline was wearing thin.
"He's switching tactics," Victor muttered, half to himself. "Less flash, more control. He's conserving what's left."
The Fixer gave a lazy grin, waving a hand dismissively. "That's what I like to see. A smart fighter knows when to drop the show and focus on survival. Makes the comeback story that much sweeter."
Victor shot him a glare. "You mean marketable."
"Exactly," the Fixer said without shame, tapping his data pad. "Night City loves a survivor — especially one who looks good bleeding."
---
The crowd's noise shifted again as Xen stood, throwing his towel aside. He raised his gloved fists to the stands and shouted something that the mic didn't quite catch. Whatever it was, it drew a fresh wave of cheers and curses.
The Fixer smirked, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and waving it theatrically. "He knows how to work an audience. Good kid."
Victor frowned, glancing at the Fixer. "If things start to spiral, I'm going down there. I'm not letting this turn into a circus."
The Fixer leaned back, grin widening. "Come on, Victor. You're the legend — the symbol. The banner of Night City boxing. You can't go storming down there like a worried dad. Let the myth do its job."
Victor's expression hardened, but before he could argue, the Fixer added smoothly, "Don't worry. If things get ugly, I've got security standing by. I don't waste assets."
He said it so casually that Victor almost missed the word assets. Almost.
---
Down in the ring, Xen rolled his shoulders and scanned the remaining fighters. Their numbers had thinned — half bruised, half broken, all watching him with a mix of envy and fear.
He pointed lazily at one of them — the smallest, skinniest guy left.
"You. Yeah, you. Get up here."
The chosen man blinked, pointing to himself in disbelief. "Me? This isn't right!"
Xen tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Why not? You want me to make it fair and pick someone heavier?"
The boxer hesitated. Everyone knew Xen's pattern so far: start with the strong, finish with the weak. The sudden change threw the others off balance. The scrawny fighter shook his head violently. "Nope! I'm not fighting! Forget it!"
He bolted from the arena like a man escaping death row.
The crowd erupted in laughter, but Xen just smirked. "Boring," he muttered. "Alright then — you." He pointed toward another man, one who had been cheering the loudest from the edge of the group.
The bigger boxer cracked his knuckles and climbed into the ring. "You're just putting on a show, old man," he sneered. "You're running out of steam. I'll take it from here."
Xen rolled his neck. "Good. I was hoping for someone who could still talk."
---
From the viewing booth, the Fixer's cybernetic eye zoomed in again. "Ah, clever bastard," he murmured. "Driving off the weakest first — sets the stage."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"
"Psychology, my friend. By chasing away the cowards, he tells the rest they're stronger — makes them believe they've got a chance. Hope's a better drug than any stimpack. And when he crushes that hope? The story writes itself."
Victor exhaled. "You've got a scary way of enjoying this."
The Fixer smirked. "Playing with people's hearts, Victor — that's the real sport in Night City."
---
The bell rang. The larger boxer charged forward, bouncing on his feet, trying to bait Xen into overextending. Xen's guard stayed high, his breathing steady. Every swing from his opponent wasted precious energy. Every sidestep from Xen made him angrier.
"You're done, old man!" the boxer spat, swinging wide.
Xen caught the movement, saw the weakness, and grinned. His muscles screamed, but his mind was already whispering to the system inside him.
Find me something small. Concealable. Boosts power. Cheap.
> [Detecting R&D demand. Displaying: Heavy Knuckle Duster Project.]
Perfect.
A faint shimmer of light passed over his right glove. Inside, at the molecular level, the system had forged a compact weighted knuckle duster — invisible, precise, and lethal.
The data flashed across his mind:
> 18th-century British underground boxing cheat device.
Non-lethal bruising pattern. No visible evidence.
His lips curled. "Let's make this commercial," he whispered.
The boxer lunged again. Xen stepped into the punch and twisted his hips.
> Boom—
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
The crowd went silent as the boxer froze mid-motion, eyes rolling back. The impact slammed into his cheek like a freight train, sending him crashing to the canvas. The ref didn't even bother counting.
K.O.
Three seconds. That was all it took.
The Fixer let out a low whistle. "Holy shit. Did you see that? That's money."
Victor, though impressed, looked uneasy. "That wasn't a clean glove. Nobody hits like that after thirty minutes on their feet."
The Fixer only smiled wider. "And yet, everyone believes what they see. That's the magic."
---
Xen peeled off his gloves, discreetly slipping the weighted knuckle into his towel. He raised a fist toward the crowd. "I'm tired," he said hoarsely. "But that doesn't mean any of you got stronger."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut steel.
He scanned the rows of faces — boxers, sponsors, onlookers, the vultures of Night City's entertainment machine. "No one else? Guess there aren't any real fighters left."
The provocation burned through the hall. A few men clenched their fists, but none stepped forward. Exhaustion, fear, and doubt chained them to the ground.
Xen spat onto the mat, a dark grin spreading across his face. "You know what's funny? You all talk about wanting glory — but when it's right here, you choke. Trash doesn't climb. It just stinks."
He turned his eyes toward the stands, locking onto the Fixer and Victor.
"Well, Fixer," he said quietly to himself, knowing the cameras would catch the moment. "You wanted a story, right? How's this for a headline?"
From above, the Fixer laughed, waving his handkerchief like a flag. "Perfect! Keep it up! The crowd eats this up!"
Victor didn't laugh. His coat was already off. His expression had hardened into something fierce — something nostalgic. He had seen enough.
The Fixer leaned forward eagerly. "Wait, Victor — what are you doing?"
Victor's answer was simple. "If he wants a legend, I'll give him one."
---
The audience gasped as Victor stood, stepping toward the rail. The arena lights caught the scars on his knuckles, the faint glow of cybernetic veins beneath his skin.
Below, Xen's grin faltered for the first time as he realized what was happening.
No way, he thought. He's actually coming down here?
The Fixer's voice crackled over the comms, manic with excitement. "This is it! Old champ versus new blood — the handover match! Roll cameras! Keep the feed live!"
The crowd's roar swelled to thunder.
Xen flexed his hands, fatigue screaming through his muscles, but adrenaline drowning it out. He could barely stand — but the moment was perfect. The kind of drama the Fixer had dreamed of… and the kind of test Xen couldn't afford to refuse.
Alright, he thought. Let's see how far the legend's shadow really stretches.