Marcus felt it before he saw it.
The attention.
It moved with him through the corridors, followed him into training zones, lingered during meals. Cameras didn't tilt or whir. They didn't have to. Iron City watched without movement, without effort.
A new mark had appeared on his collar overnight thin, angular, etched in dark red.
Nobody asked about it.
They just stepped aside.
In the lower tiers, silence followed him like a shadow. The underground fighters no longer offered advice. No more quiet warnings. Just space. Distance. Respect threaded with caution.
A woman matched pace beside him near the lift shafts. Short hair, sharp eyes, efficient stride.
"Don't look up," she said.
Marcus didn't.
"What?"
"You're flagged," she continued calmly. "High-risk observation. Means you don't get accidents anymore."
He exhaled. "Wasn't counting on them."
She stopped walking. Marcus stopped too.
"They don't intervene when you win," she said. "Only when you might lose."
"And you're telling me this because…?"
She gave a brief smile. "Because you fight like someone who still thinks choice exists."
Before he could reply, a chime sounded overhead.
SPECIAL OBSERVATION MATCH
PARTICIPANT: COLE, MARCUS
No advance notice. No prep.
The arena doors opened.
This ring was different smaller, tighter, walls reinforced with impact plating. Elevated platforms hung overhead, filled with shadowed figures instead of crowds. Analysts. Controllers.
Weapons lay arranged at the center.
Not random.
Selected.
Marcus stepped in barefoot. The floor was cold, textured for grip. Opposite him stood a single opponent not bigger, not faster. Just calm.
Too calm.
A voice echoed, filtered and precise.
"Fight is not the objective."
The light flicked on.
Marcus moved first and froze.
His opponent mirrored him perfectly.
Same stance. Same timing. Same adjustments. Every feint answered before it finished.
Not prediction.
Data.
The realization hit mid-exchange: this wasn't a man learning him.
This was a system.
Pain exploded across his ribs as his mirror struck first his strike, turned against him. Marcus adapted, broke rhythm, drove ugly, improvised movement into the fight.
The system slowed.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
Marcus pressed, not to win but to disrupt. Elbow instead of fist. Head instead of form. Blood surfaced. The reflection staggered.
The light cut instantly.
MATCH TERMINATED
Silence.
Then the voice returned.
"Observation complete."
Medical teams hauled the opponent away. Marcus stayed standing, chest heaving, blood warm on his side.
New text burned into the display.
STATUS UPDATED
CATEGORY: UNPREDICTABLE
CONTROL: LIMITED
As he exited the arena, the woman waited near the corridor.
She looked at the blood. Then the mark.
"They don't like variables," she said.
Marcus wiped his mouth. "Too bad."
She nodded once. "People like you don't disappear here."
"Then what happens?"
She turned and walked away.
"Eventually?"
Marcus stood alone in the corridor as the cameras kept watching.
Being marked wasn't a sentence.
It was a countdown.