Marcus woke to the sound of his cell door opening. He was on his feet instantly, claws extended, every muscle coiled and ready. The transformation had changed more than just his body—his instincts were sharper now, more animal, more predatory. Sleep came lighter, and he woke ready to kill.
But it was just the handler from before, the woman who'd shown him to his cell. She stood in the doorway with two armed guards behind her, both carrying shock batons that crackled with blue electricity. Smart. Regular weapons probably wouldn't do much against what he'd become.
"Easy," she said, hands raised. "Just here to talk business."
Marcus relaxed slightly, his claws retracting. "What business?"
She stepped into the cell and tossed something onto the cot. A credstick, the kind that held digital currency. "Your payment. For Sledge."
Marcus picked it up, turning it over in his scaled fingers. The display showed a number that made his eyes widen. Fifty thousand credits. More money than he'd seen in his entire life before the Pit.
"That's your cut," the woman said. "Twenty percent of the betting pool. The Syndicate takes the rest, obviously, but you did good work last night. Kade wants you to know you're valued."
"Valued enough to remove the kill switch?"
She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Not that valued. But keep winning, keep making them money, and who knows? Maybe eventually." She gestured to the credstick. "In the meantime, you can use that for whatever you want. Food, drugs, entertainment. We've got vendors who cater to fighters. Just don't try to buy your way out—it won't work."
Marcus pocketed the credstick. Fifty thousand credits wouldn't buy his freedom, but it was a start. More importantly, it was proof that he could earn. That he had value beyond just being another body in the ring.
"There's something else," the woman continued. "Your next fight is scheduled. Three days from now. Different venue, different rules. Kade wants to see how you adapt."
"Who's the opponent?"
"You'll find out when you get there. But first, we need to get you outfitted." She turned and walked out of the cell, gesturing for him to follow. "Come on. Can't have our new star looking like a blood-soaked mess."
The guards fell in behind Marcus as he followed her through the corridors. They passed more cells, more fighters. Some were sleeping, some were training, some were just sitting and staring at nothing, their eyes hollow and dead. Marcus wondered how many fights they'd survived. How many kills they had under their belts. How long before he looked like that—empty, broken, just going through the motions until something bigger and meaner finally put them down.
He pushed the thought away. That wouldn't be him. He'd keep getting stronger, keep climbing, until nobody could touch him.
They reached a large room that looked like a combination armory and clothing depot. Racks of gear lined the walls—body armor, weapons, tactical suits, everything a fighter might need. But there was also regular clothing, street wear, things that looked almost normal if you ignored the reinforced stitching and ballistic weave.
"Pick whatever you want," the woman said. "Some fighters like armor, some like mobility. It's up to you. Just remember—whatever you choose, you're wearing it in the ring."
Marcus moved through the racks, his clawed hands brushing over materials. Kevlar vests, carbon-fiber plating, full tactical rigs that would turn him into a walking tank. But as he looked at them, he felt something like disgust rising in his throat.
That wasn't him. Not anymore.
He'd been human once, weak and vulnerable, and he'd needed protection. But now? Now he was the weapon. His scales were harder than most armor. His claws could tear through steel. His body was built for violence, for dominance, for raw, primal combat.
Why hide that?
He found a pair of reinforced jeans, the kind with ballistic fiber woven into the denim. They were big enough to fit his new frame, with extra room in the legs for his digitigrade stance. He pulled them on—they fit perfectly, sitting low on his hips.
"That's it?" the woman asked. "No shirt? No boots?"
Marcus looked down at himself. His torso was covered in dark green scales that gleamed under the fluorescent lights, each one overlapping like natural armor. His chest was broad and heavily muscled, his abs defined in sharp relief. His feet were different now too—longer, with clawed toes that gripped the floor like a raptor's talons. Boots would just get in the way.
"This is what I am," he said. "Let them see it."
The woman studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Kade's going to love that. The crowd too. Nothing sells like a monster who knows he's a monster." She gestured to the guards. "All right, let's move. Transport's waiting."
They led him up through the complex, past the main arena where he'd killed Sledge, and out into a loading bay. A heavy transport truck sat idling, its back doors open. Inside was a reinforced cage, big enough for Marcus but clearly designed to contain something dangerous.
"In you go," the woman said.
Marcus climbed into the cage without complaint. The door slammed shut behind him, locks engaging. Through the mesh, he could see the woman and the guards climbing into the cab. The engine rumbled, and the truck lurched into motion.
The ride took over an hour. Marcus couldn't see much through the small windows in the truck's sides, but he caught glimpses of the city passing by—neon signs, crowded streets, the vertical sprawl of megabuildings reaching toward a sky choked with smog and light pollution. This was the lower city, where people like him had lived before the Pit. Where debt collectors prowled and the desperate made stupid choices just to survive another day.
He wondered if anyone out there knew what had happened to him. If anyone cared.
Probably not.
Eventually, the city gave way to something else. The buildings thinned out, replaced by industrial wasteland and then, surprisingly, open terrain. Marcus pressed his face against the mesh, trying to see more. Where the hell were they going?
The truck began to climb. The road got rougher, switchbacks cutting up the side of something massive. Through the windows, Marcus caught his first glimpse of their destination, and his breath caught in his throat.
Cliffs.
Massive, towering cliffs of dark stone that rose hundreds of feet into the air. They were part of an old quarry, long abandoned, the rock face scarred and pitted from decades of mining. But someone had built something here. Scaffolding clung to the cliff walls, platforms jutting out over dizzying drops. Lights had been strung up, harsh spotlights that illuminated the stone and cast deep shadows into the crevasses below.
And at the center of it all, suspended between two cliff faces by thick cables and support beams, was an arena.
It wasn't like the cage in the Pit. This was something else entirely—a platform maybe fifty feet across, made of reinforced metal grating that you could see straight through to the drop below. No walls, no barriers, just open space and a fall that would kill anything that went over the edge. The platform was connected to the cliff faces by narrow bridges, barely wide enough for one person, with no railings.
Around the arena, built into the cliff walls themselves, were viewing platforms. Hundreds of them, stacked vertically like the seats in an amphitheater, each one packed with spectators. The crowd was even bigger than the one at the Pit, thousands of people come to watch fighters kill each other in one of the most dangerous environments imaginable.
The truck pulled into a staging area carved into the base of one cliff. The back doors opened, and Marcus's cage was unlocked. He stepped out onto solid rock, his claws clicking against stone, and stared up at the arena suspended high above.
"Welcome to the Edge," the woman said, coming around from the cab. "The Syndicate's newest venue. We've been running fights here for about six months now. Mortality rate is about eighty percent."
Marcus looked at her. "Eighty percent?"
"Most fighters can't handle the terrain. They get disoriented by the height, or they focus too much on not falling and forget about their opponent. Or they just get thrown off." She pointed up at the platform. "It's a long way down. We've had fighters survive the fall, but not many. And the ones who do usually wish they hadn't."
"What are the rules?"
"Same as always—fight until someone can't continue, or until someone dies. But here, there's a third option." She smiled. "You can win by throwing your opponent off the platform. Counts as a kill, and the crowd loves it. Nothing quite like watching someone fall screaming into the dark."
Marcus felt his pulse quicken. This was different from the cage, from the controlled environment of the Pit. This was chaos, danger, the kind of fight where one wrong step could mean death. It should have terrified him.
Instead, he felt excited.
"When do I fight?"
"Soon. They're finishing up the undercard now." She gestured to a narrow path cut into the cliff face. "Come on. I'll take you to the prep area."
They climbed. The path was steep and treacherous, barely wide enough for Marcus's broad frame. On one side was solid rock, on the other was open air and a drop that made his stomach clench. But his new body handled it easily—his clawed feet found purchase on the stone, his balance was perfect, his strength made the climb feel effortless.
They reached a platform about halfway up the cliff, a staging area where fighters waited before their matches. There were a few others there already—a woman with cybernetic legs that ended in blades instead of feet, a man whose entire body seemed to be covered in some kind of living metal, and something that might have been human once but was now more insect than man, with compound eyes and mandibles that clicked constantly.
They all stopped and stared when Marcus arrived.
"Fresh meat," the woman with blade-legs said, her voice sharp and mocking. "Look at this one. Thinks he's scary because he's got scales and teeth."
Marcus ignored her, moving to the edge of the platform to look up at the arena. From here, he could see it clearly—the metal grating, the narrow bridges, the sheer drops on all sides. He could also see the crowd, thousands of faces illuminated by the spotlights, all of them screaming and chanting, working themselves into a frenzy.
"First time at the Edge?" a voice asked.
Marcus turned. It was the man with the living metal skin. Up close, Marcus could see it wasn't armor—it was actually part of him, growing out of his flesh like some kind of organic-mechanical hybrid. His eyes were human, though, and they held something like sympathy.
"Yeah," Marcus said.
"Advice? Don't look down during the fight. The drop will mess with your head, make you hesitate. And hesitation here means death." The man extended a hand. "Name's Ferro. Been fighting at the Edge for four months now. Twelve matches, twelve wins."
Marcus shook his hand carefully, mindful of his claws. "Apex."
"I know. Word travels fast in the circuit. You're the one who tore apart Sledge." Ferro's expression darkened. "That was brutal, even by Pit standards. Kade must have big plans for you if he's throwing you into the Edge this soon."
"What do you mean?"
"The Edge isn't for rookies. This is where they send fighters who've proven themselves, who've survived long enough to be worth the investment. The fact that you're here after one fight?" Ferro shook his head. "Either Kade thinks you're special, or he's testing you to see if you break."
Before Marcus could respond, a horn blared across the quarry. The crowd's roar intensified. On the arena platform above, two fighters were squaring off—one human with some kind of energy weapon, the other a massive thing that looked like a bear crossed with a tank.
The fight lasted less than a minute. The bear-thing charged, the human tried to dodge, and his foot slipped on the metal grating. He went over the edge, his scream cutting off abruptly when he hit the rocks below. The crowd went insane.
"See?" Ferro said quietly. "That's what I mean. The arena itself is as dangerous as any opponent."
The horn blared again. A voice boomed out over loudspeakers, amplified to carry across the entire quarry.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! OUR NEXT MATCH FEATURES A SPECIAL ATTRACTION! FRESH FROM HIS DEBUT AT THE PIT, WHERE HE BRUTALLY EXECUTED THE FORMER CHAMPION SLEDGE, WE BRING YOU THE APEX PREDATOR HIMSELF—APEX!"
The crowd's roar was deafening. Marcus felt every eye in the quarry turn toward the staging platform.
"That's you," the handler said. "Time to go."
Marcus moved to the bridge that led up to the arena. It was even narrower than it had looked from below, barely two feet wide, with cables for handrails that looked like they'd snap if you put any real weight on them. The bridge swayed in the wind, and through the gaps in the metal grating, Marcus could see straight down to the quarry floor hundreds of feet below.
He started across.
Each step made the bridge sway more. The wind picked up, cold and sharp, cutting across the exposed cliff face. Marcus kept his eyes forward, focusing on the arena platform ahead. His claws gripped the metal grating, his tail—he had a tail now, he realized, thick and muscular, helping him balance—swayed behind him for counterweight.
He reached the platform and stepped onto it. The metal grating was solid under his feet, but he could feel it flex slightly with his weight. Through the gaps, he could see nothing but darkness and the distant glow of lights at the quarry floor.
The crowd was all around him now, above and below, thousands of faces screaming his name. The spotlights were blinding, turning the arena into an island of harsh white light surrounded by darkness.
"AND HIS OPPONENT!" the announcer's voice boomed. "A VETERAN OF THE EDGE WITH FIFTEEN KILLS TO HIS NAME! THE FLYING DEATH! RAPTOR!"
Another figure appeared on a bridge on the opposite side of the arena. Marcus's enhanced vision picked out details immediately—humanoid, but with massive wings folded against his back, talons instead of feet, and a face that was more bird than man. The wings were clearly cybernetic, but they moved with fluid grace, flexing and adjusting as Raptor walked across the bridge.
He reached the platform and spread his wings. They were huge, easily twenty feet across, made of some kind of carbon-fiber and synthetic feather combination. The crowd roared its approval.
Raptor smiled, showing a beak filled with metal teeth. "A ground-pounder," he said, his voice sharp and mocking. "This is going to be fun."
Marcus understood immediately. Raptor had the advantage here—he could fly, could use the vertical space, could attack from angles Marcus couldn't easily defend against. And if Marcus got too close to the edge, Raptor could just push him off.
This wasn't going to be like fighting Sledge. This was going to be a hunt.
And Marcus wasn't sure if he was the hunter or the prey.
The horn blared. The fight began.
Raptor launched himself into the air with a powerful beat of his wings, rising above the platform, circling like a vulture over carrion. Marcus tracked him, turning slowly, keeping his center of gravity low, staying away from the edges.
"What's wrong?" Raptor called down. "Afraid of heights?"
He dove.
Marcus saw it coming and threw himself to the side. Raptor's talons raked across his back, drawing blood, tearing through scales. The pain was sharp and immediate, but Marcus rolled with it, coming up in a crouch, claws extended.
Raptor was already climbing again, wings beating hard, gaining altitude. He circled once, twice, then dove again from a different angle.
This time Marcus was ready. As Raptor came in, Marcus lunged forward instead of dodging, closing the distance, getting inside the arc of those talons. His claws found purchase on Raptor's leg, and he held on.
Raptor screamed and beat his wings frantically, trying to gain altitude, trying to shake Marcus off. But Marcus's grip was iron. He pulled himself up, claws digging into cybernetic components and flesh, climbing Raptor's body like a tree.
They rose together, ten feet above the platform, then fifteen, then twenty. The crowd was going insane. Raptor twisted and spun, trying to dislodge Marcus, but Marcus just climbed higher, his jaws opening wide.
He bit down on Raptor's wing joint.
His teeth found the connection point where cybernetics met flesh, and he bit through it. Servos snapped, hydraulic lines ruptured, and the wing came apart in a spray of oil and blood.
Raptor's scream was piercing. They started to fall.
Marcus let go and dropped, hitting the platform hard enough to dent the metal grating. He rolled and came up on his feet, claws ready.
Raptor hit a second later, his remaining wing flailing uselessly, unable to arrest his fall. He crashed into the platform face-first, his beak cracking against the metal. Blood poured from his ruined wing socket.
Marcus was on him in an instant.
He grabbed Raptor by the throat and lifted him, carrying him toward the edge of the platform. Raptor struggled weakly, his remaining wing beating against Marcus's chest, his talons scraping uselessly against Marcus's scales.
"Please," Raptor gasped. "Please, I—"
Marcus threw him off the platform.
Raptor's scream echoed across the quarry as he fell, tumbling end over end, his one wing unable to save him. The scream cut off with a wet crunch when he hit the rocks below.
The crowd erupted. The sound was overwhelming, a physical force that pressed against Marcus from all sides. They were chanting his name again, screaming it, worshipping it.
"APEX! APEX! APEX!"
Marcus stood at the edge of the platform, looking down at Raptor's broken body far below. He felt the same rush as before, the same satisfaction, the same hunger for more.
Two fights. Two kills. And he was just getting started.
He raised his arms and roared, a sound that was more reptilian than human, and the crowd roared back.
Somewhere in the darkness, watching from one of the VIP platforms, Kade smiled.