The arena lights were too bright.
They washed everything in artificial clarity, like the world was pretending this was clean, controlled, fair.
It wasn't.
Our opponents stepped out first. Four of them. Independent fighters, mismatched gear, aggressive stances. The kind that relied on brute force and intimidation rather than thought.
They sized us up immediately.
Sora stayed calm. She always did. Two of the others shifted their weight, nerves bleeding through their posture.
I stayed where I was.
The announcer's voice rolled over the arena, introducing teams with practiced enthusiasm. Names blurred together. Cheers rose and fell in waves.
Then the signal sounded.
They charged.
Not all at once—two rushed forward, the others circling wide. Basic pincer movement. Sloppy spacing.
I stepped aside at the last second.
The first attacker overextended. I caught his wrist, turned, and used his momentum against him. He hit the ground hard, breath gone in a sharp exhale.
The second hesitated.
That was enough.
I closed the distance, low and fast, striking joints instead of center mass. No wasted motion. No flourish. He dropped before he understood what went wrong.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
I retreated immediately.
Let them think that was it.
Sora moved next, clean and precise, controlling the center while our teammates handled the flanks. The remaining two fighters panicked, coordination collapsing under pressure.
It ended quickly.
Too quickly.
The referee called the match.
Victory.
The crowd reacted late, unsure how to feel about a fight that never gave them a spectacle.
I turned to leave before the noise could settle.
As we exited the arena, I felt it again.
That same attention.
Not excitement.
Assessment.
Somewhere above, behind reinforced glass and quiet observation rooms, people were already replaying the footage.
Not because we won.
But because something about the way I fought didn't fit.
And things that didn't fit tended to get pulled apart.