They didn't let Marcus leave the Edge.
After Raptor's body was cleared from the rocks below, the handler appeared on the platform via one of the narrow bridges. She moved with practiced ease, not even glancing at the deadly drop on either side.
"Kade wants you to fight again," she said. "Tonight. Right now."
Marcus turned to face her, blood still dripping from his claws. "Two fights in one night?"
"You wanted to get stronger, didn't you? Wanted to climb?" She gestured to the crowd, still screaming his name. "This is how you do it. The Edge runs multiple matches per fighter on debut nights. Survive them all, and you move up the rankings fast. Fail..." She glanced over the edge at the dark stain on the rocks below. "Well. You know what failure looks like here."
Marcus felt his heart rate increase, but not from fear. From anticipation. More fights meant more kills, more chances to test himself, to push his new body to its limits.
"Who's next?"
"You'll see." The handler smiled. "But I'll give you a hint—this one's not going to try to fly away from you."
She left him on the platform. The crowd's chanting gradually died down as the announcer's voice boomed across the quarry once more.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE APEX PREDATOR HAS TASTED BLOOD, AND HE HUNGERS FOR MORE! BUT CAN HE SURVIVE AGAINST THE EDGE'S MOST BRUTAL CLOSE-QUARTERS SPECIALIST? GIVE IT UP FOR THE BUTCHER!"
A figure emerged onto one of the bridges. Marcus's enhanced vision picked out details immediately—human, or at least mostly human. Male, heavily muscled, but not unnaturally so. No wings, no obvious cybernetics, no scales or claws. Just a man.
But what a man carried made Marcus's instincts scream danger.
In each hand, the Butcher held a cleaver. Not the kind you'd find in a kitchen—these were massive things, each blade easily two feet long and half a foot wide, made of some dark metal that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. The edges gleamed razor-sharp, and Marcus could see notches and stains on the blades that spoke of extensive use.
The Butcher reached the platform and rolled his shoulders, loosening up. Up close, Marcus could see the man's eyes—they were wrong, the pupils too dilated, the whites shot through with red veins. His skin had a faint sheen to it, and his muscles seemed to twitch and flex constantly, like they couldn't stay still.
"Juiced up," Ferro had called it. Chemical enhancement, injections that pushed the human body past its normal limits. Marcus had heard about them in the lower city—black market drugs that could make you stronger, faster, more durable for a few hours. The side effects were brutal, and long-term use turned your brain to mush, but in a fight? They made you a monster.
"Fresh meat," the Butcher said, his voice rough and slurred. "They said you were special. Said you were the new hotness." He spun the cleavers in his hands, the blades whistling through the air. "Let's see if you bleed like everyone else."
The horn blared.
The Butcher charged.
Marcus had expected speed, but not like this. The man moved like a freight train, closing the distance across the platform in seconds, cleavers raised high. Marcus dodged left, and one of the blades came down where he'd been standing, hitting the metal grating with a sound like a gunshot. The impact left a deep gouge in the reinforced metal.
Marcus lashed out with his claws, aiming for the Butcher's exposed side. His claws raked across flesh and drew blood, but not as much as he'd expected. The man's skin was tougher than it should be, the muscle beneath dense and resistant. The drugs had made him more durable.
The Butcher laughed and swung both cleavers in a wide arc. Marcus ducked under the first blade, but the second caught him across the shoulder, biting deep into his scales. Pain exploded through his arm, hot and sharp. The cleaver had actually cut through his natural armor.
Marcus backpedaled, putting distance between them, reassessing. This wasn't like fighting Sledge or Raptor. The Butcher was fast, strong, and armed with weapons that could actually hurt him. And the man's drug-enhanced durability meant Marcus couldn't just tear him apart with brute force.
He'd have to be smart.
The Butcher came at him again, cleavers swinging in a brutal combination—high, low, horizontal, vertical, each strike designed to corner Marcus, to drive him toward the edge of the platform. Marcus gave ground, dodging and weaving, his tail whipping behind him for balance. The crowd was screaming, loving every second of it.
One of the cleavers whistled past Marcus's face, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. He saw his opening and took it—he lunged forward, inside the Butcher's guard, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest.
The impact should have sent the Butcher flying. Instead, the man barely stumbled, his enhanced muscles absorbing the force. He brought both cleavers down toward Marcus's back.
Marcus twisted and caught one of the Butcher's wrists in his jaws. His teeth sank through flesh and muscle, grinding against bone. The Butcher screamed and dropped one cleaver, the blade clattering against the grating and sliding toward the edge of the platform.
But the man didn't stop. With his free hand, he drove the remaining cleaver into Marcus's side, just below the ribs. The blade punched through scales and muscle, and Marcus felt it scrape against bone. Blood poured from the wound, hot and thick.
Marcus bit down harder, and the Butcher's wrist bones snapped like dry wood. The man's scream intensified, but he still didn't let go of the cleaver. Instead, he twisted it, trying to open Marcus up, to spill his guts onto the platform.
Marcus released the wrist and headbutted the Butcher in the face. The man's nose exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage. Marcus headbutted him again, and again, each impact driving the Butcher backward, toward the edge.
The Butcher finally let go of the cleaver, leaving it embedded in Marcus's side. He stumbled back, blood pouring from his ruined face, his mangled wrist hanging useless. But his eyes—those drug-crazed eyes—were still full of fight.
"Not... done..." the Butcher slurred through his broken face. He reached into his belt with his good hand and pulled out a syringe filled with glowing red liquid. Before Marcus could stop him, he jammed it into his own neck and pressed the plunger.
The effect was immediate. The Butcher's muscles swelled, veins bulging across his skin like cables. His broken nose started to heal, the bones shifting back into place with audible cracks. Even his mangled wrist began to straighten, the bones knitting together.
"Oh, shit," Marcus heard Ferro say from the staging platform below.
The Butcher roared and charged again, moving even faster than before. Marcus tried to dodge, but the cleaver still embedded in his side slowed him down. The Butcher's fist—just his fist, no weapon—caught Marcus in the jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. Marcus's head snapped back, and he tasted blood.
Another punch, this one to the ribs. Marcus felt something crack. The Butcher was grinning now, his healing face twisted into a mask of drug-fueled ecstasy. He grabbed Marcus by the throat with his newly-healed hand and lifted him off the ground.
"Gonna rip you apart," the Butcher said. "Gonna paint this whole platform with your—"
Marcus grabbed the cleaver still embedded in his side and yanked it out. The pain was excruciating, but he ignored it. With all his strength, he drove the blade into the Butcher's throat.
The man's eyes went wide. Blood fountained from the wound, spraying across Marcus's chest. The Butcher's grip on Marcus's throat loosened, and Marcus fell to the grating, landing hard.
The Butcher staggered backward, both hands going to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. But the cleaver had severed something vital—an artery, maybe, or his windpipe. Blood poured between his fingers, and his enhanced healing couldn't keep up with the damage.
Marcus got to his feet, one hand pressed against the wound in his side. He walked toward the Butcher slowly, deliberately. The man was still trying to back away, still trying to survive, but his legs were giving out. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the platform.
Marcus grabbed him by the hair and looked into his eyes. The drug-induced madness was fading, replaced by something else. Fear. Understanding. The knowledge that this was the end.
"You fought well," Marcus said. Then he pushed.
The Butcher went over the edge without a sound, his hands still clutched to his throat. The crowd counted down his fall like it was New Year's Eve, and when he hit the rocks below, they erupted into cheers.
Marcus stood at the edge, breathing hard, blood dripping from his wounds. The cleaver had done serious damage—he could feel it with every breath, every movement. But he was still standing. Still alive.
Still hungry for more.
The announcer's voice boomed across the quarry. "UNBELIEVABLE! THE APEX PREDATOR TAKES DOWN THE BUTCHER! BUT WAIT—LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE HAVE A SPECIAL SURPRISE! KADE HIMSELF HAS AUTHORIZED A THIRD MATCH TONIGHT! IF APEX CAN SURVIVE ONE MORE FIGHT, HE'LL MOVE DIRECTLY INTO THE TOP TEN RANKINGS!"
The crowd went insane. Marcus looked up at the VIP platforms, searching for Kade, but the man was hidden in shadow. He could feel eyes on him, though. Watching. Evaluating.
Testing.
"INTRODUCING HIS NEXT OPPONENT—A FIGHTER WHO'S NEVER LOST AT THE EDGE! THE SILENT DEATH! WHISPER!"
Marcus turned toward the bridges, expecting another opponent to emerge. But the platform remained empty. The crowd's noise died down to confused murmurs. Where was—
Pain exploded in Marcus's back.
He spun around and saw her—a woman, small and slight, dressed in form-fitting black that made her almost invisible in the shadows at the edge of the platform. In each hand, she held a blade, thin and curved like a scalpel, both of them dripping with Marcus's blood.
She'd been on the platform the whole time. Hiding. Waiting.
Whisper didn't speak. She just smiled and vanished into the shadows again.
Marcus's instincts screamed danger. This wasn't like the Butcher's straightforward brutality or Raptor's aerial assault. This was something else entirely—a predator who hunted from the darkness, who struck without warning and disappeared before you could retaliate.
He scanned the platform, his enhanced vision trying to pierce the shadows, but the spotlights were working against him, creating pools of darkness where Whisper could hide. His wounds were slowing him down, making him vulnerable. Blood loss was starting to affect him—he could feel it in the slight tremor in his hands, the way his vision was starting to narrow.
Another slash, this one across his thigh. Marcus spun and lashed out with his claws, but hit only air. Whisper was already gone.
The crowd was silent now, watching with bated breath. This was different from the previous fights—there was no roaring, no dramatic exchanges. Just a wounded predator being slowly bled out by something he couldn't catch.
Marcus forced himself to think. Whisper was fast, but she was also small. Her blades were sharp, but they weren't doing massive damage—she was going for cuts, for blood loss, wearing him down. She was patient.
But patience required time. And time was something Marcus could use.
He moved to the center of the platform and dropped to one knee, his hand pressed against the wound in his side. He let his head hang, let his breathing become labored and ragged. He made himself look defeated.
Come on, he thought. Take the bait.
He heard it—the softest whisper of movement behind him. Felt the displacement of air as Whisper moved in for what she thought would be the killing blow.
Marcus's tail whipped around like a club.
It caught Whisper in mid-strike, hitting her in the ribs with enough force to lift her off her feet. She flew backward and hit the grating hard, her blades skittering away across the platform.
Marcus was on her before she could recover. He pinned her to the grating with one hand around her throat, his claws pressing against her skin hard enough to draw blood.
Up close, he could see her clearly for the first time. She was young, maybe early twenties, with short dark hair and eyes that held no fear, even now. She wasn't enhanced—no scales, no cybernetics, no obvious signs of drug use. Just a human woman with blades and skill.
And she'd almost killed him.
"How?" Marcus asked, his voice rough.
Whisper smiled. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, forcing Marcus to lean closer to hear. "You're strong. Fast. Dangerous." She coughed, blood flecking her lips. "But you're still learning. Still figuring out what you are." Her smile widened. "I've been doing this for three years. I know exactly what I am."
"What's that?"
"A survivor."
Her hand moved, faster than Marcus could track. He felt something cold press against his throat—she'd had a third blade, hidden somewhere on her body. One quick slash and she could open his jugular.
They stared at each other for a long moment, predator and prey, each holding the other's life in their hands.
Then Whisper's hand relaxed. The blade fell from her fingers and clattered against the grating.
"I yield," she said quietly.
The crowd erupted in boos and jeers. They wanted blood, wanted death, wanted to see Marcus tear her apart like he had the others. But Marcus just stared at her, confused.
"Why?"
"Because you let me speak," Whisper said. "The others never do. They just kill." She looked up at him with those fearless eyes. "You're different. You're not just a monster. Not yet."
Marcus stood, releasing her. Whisper got to her feet slowly, retrieving her blades. She gave him a small nod, then walked to one of the bridges and disappeared into the darkness.
The crowd was still booing, but Marcus didn't care. He'd won. Three fights, three victories. He'd earned his place in the top ten.
But as he stood there, bleeding and exhausted, he realized something. Whisper had been right. He was still learning, still figuring out what he'd become. The transformation had given him power, but power alone wasn't enough. He needed skill. Strategy. Understanding.
The handler appeared on the platform, flanked by medical personnel carrying a stretcher. "That's enough for tonight," she said. "You've proven your point. Kade is... impressed."
Marcus let them lead him off the platform, back down the narrow bridge to the staging area. Ferro was there, watching with an expression Marcus couldn't quite read.
"Three fights in one night," Ferro said quietly. "And you survived all of them. That's... that's never been done before. Not at the Edge."
Marcus didn't respond. He was too busy thinking about Whisper's words, about what came next. He'd climbed the rankings fast, maybe too fast. And the higher he climbed, the more dangerous the opponents would become.
The Syndicate was testing him, pushing him, seeing how far he could go before he broke.
And Marcus realized, with a mixture of excitement and dread, that he had no idea what his limits were.
Or what he'd have to become to survive finding out.# CHAPTER FOUR: EVOLUTION
They didn't let Marcus leave the Edge.
After Raptor's body was cleared from the rocks below, the handler appeared on the platform via one of the narrow bridges. She moved with practiced ease, not even glancing at the deadly drop on either side.
"Kade wants you to fight again," she said. "Tonight. Right now."
Marcus turned to face her, blood still dripping from his claws. "Two fights in one night?"
"You wanted to get stronger, didn't you? Wanted to climb?" She gestured to the crowd, still screaming his name. "This is how you do it. The Edge runs multiple matches per fighter on debut nights. Survive them all, and you move up the rankings fast. Fail..." She glanced over the edge at the dark stain on the rocks below. "Well. You know what failure looks like here."
Marcus felt his heart rate increase, but not from fear. From anticipation. More fights meant more kills, more chances to test himself, to push his new body to its limits.
"Who's next?"
"You'll see." The handler smiled. "But I'll give you a hint—this one's not going to try to fly away from you."
She left him on the platform. The crowd's chanting gradually died down as the announcer's voice boomed across the quarry once more.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE APEX PREDATOR HAS TASTED BLOOD, AND HE HUNGERS FOR MORE! BUT CAN HE SURVIVE AGAINST THE EDGE'S MOST BRUTAL CLOSE-QUARTERS SPECIALIST? GIVE IT UP FOR THE BUTCHER!"
A figure emerged onto one of the bridges. Marcus's enhanced vision picked out details immediately—human, or at least mostly human. Male, heavily muscled, but not unnaturally so. No wings, no obvious cybernetics, no scales or claws. Just a man.
But what a man carried made Marcus's instincts scream danger.
In each hand, the Butcher held a cleaver. Not the kind you'd find in a kitchen—these were massive things, each blade easily two feet long and half a foot wide, made of some dark metal that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. The edges gleamed razor-sharp, and Marcus could see notches and stains on the blades that spoke of extensive use.
The Butcher reached the platform and rolled his shoulders, loosening up. Up close, Marcus could see the man's eyes—they were wrong, the pupils too dilated, the whites shot through with red veins. His skin had a faint sheen to it, and his muscles seemed to twitch and flex constantly, like they couldn't stay still.
"Juiced up," Ferro had called it. Chemical enhancement, injections that pushed the human body past its normal limits. Marcus had heard about them in the lower city—black market drugs that could make you stronger, faster, more durable for a few hours. The side effects were brutal, and long-term use turned your brain to mush, but in a fight? They made you a monster.
"Fresh meat," the Butcher said, his voice rough and slurred. "They said you were special. Said you were the new hotness." He spun the cleavers in his hands, the blades whistling through the air. "Let's see if you bleed like everyone else."
The horn blared.
The Butcher charged.
Marcus had expected speed, but not like this. The man moved like a freight train, closing the distance across the platform in seconds, cleavers raised high. Marcus dodged left, and one of the blades came down where he'd been standing, hitting the metal grating with a sound like a gunshot. The impact left a deep gouge in the reinforced metal.
Marcus lashed out with his claws, aiming for the Butcher's exposed side. His claws raked across flesh and drew blood, but not as much as he'd expected. The man's skin was tougher than it should be, the muscle beneath dense and resistant. The drugs had made him more durable.
The Butcher laughed and swung both cleavers in a wide arc. Marcus ducked under the first blade, but the second caught him across the shoulder, biting deep into his scales. Pain exploded through his arm, hot and sharp. The cleaver had actually cut through his natural armor.
Marcus backpedaled, putting distance between them, reassessing. This wasn't like fighting Sledge or Raptor. The Butcher was fast, strong, and armed with weapons that could actually hurt him. And the man's drug-enhanced durability meant Marcus couldn't just tear him apart with brute force.
He'd have to be smart.
The Butcher came at him again, cleavers swinging in a brutal combination—high, low, horizontal, vertical, each strike designed to corner Marcus, to drive him toward the edge of the platform. Marcus gave ground, dodging and weaving, his tail whipping behind him for balance. The crowd was screaming, loving every second of it.
One of the cleavers whistled past Marcus's face, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. He saw his opening and took it—he lunged forward, inside the Butcher's guard, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest.
The impact should have sent the Butcher flying. Instead, the man barely stumbled, his enhanced muscles absorbing the force. He brought both cleavers down toward Marcus's back.
Marcus twisted and caught one of the Butcher's wrists in his jaws. His teeth sank through flesh and muscle, grinding against bone. The Butcher screamed and dropped one cleaver, the blade clattering against the grating and sliding toward the edge of the platform.
But the man didn't stop. With his free hand, he drove the remaining cleaver into Marcus's side, just below the ribs. The blade punched through scales and muscle, and Marcus felt it scrape against bone. Blood poured from the wound, hot and thick.
Marcus bit down harder, and the Butcher's wrist bones snapped like dry wood. The man's scream intensified, but he still didn't let go of the cleaver. Instead, he twisted it, trying to open Marcus up, to spill his guts onto the platform.
Marcus released the wrist and headbutted the Butcher in the face. The man's nose exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage. Marcus headbutted him again, and again, each impact driving the Butcher backward, toward the edge.
The Butcher finally let go of the cleaver, leaving it embedded in Marcus's side. He stumbled back, blood pouring from his ruined face, his mangled wrist hanging useless. But his eyes—those drug-crazed eyes—were still full of fight.
"Not... done..." the Butcher slurred through his broken face. He reached into his belt with his good hand and pulled out a syringe filled with glowing red liquid. Before Marcus could stop him, he jammed it into his own neck and pressed the plunger.
The effect was immediate. The Butcher's muscles swelled, veins bulging across his skin like cables. His broken nose started to heal, the bones shifting back into place with audible cracks. Even his mangled wrist began to straighten, the bones knitting together.
"Oh, shit," Marcus heard Ferro say from the staging platform below.
The Butcher roared and charged again, moving even faster than before. Marcus tried to dodge, but the cleaver still embedded in his side slowed him down. The Butcher's fist—just his fist, no weapon—caught Marcus in the jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. Marcus's head snapped back, and he tasted blood.
Another punch, this one to the ribs. Marcus felt something crack. The Butcher was grinning now, his healing face twisted into a mask of drug-fueled ecstasy. He grabbed Marcus by the throat with his newly-healed hand and lifted him off the ground.
"Gonna rip you apart," the Butcher said. "Gonna paint this whole platform with your—"
Marcus grabbed the cleaver still embedded in his side and yanked it out. The pain was excruciating, but he ignored it. With all his strength, he drove the blade into the Butcher's throat.
The man's eyes went wide. Blood fountained from the wound, spraying across Marcus's chest. The Butcher's grip on Marcus's throat loosened, and Marcus fell to the grating, landing hard.
The Butcher staggered backward, both hands going to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. But the cleaver had severed something vital—an artery, maybe, or his windpipe. Blood poured between his fingers, and his enhanced healing couldn't keep up with the damage.
Marcus got to his feet, one hand pressed against the wound in his side. He walked toward the Butcher slowly, deliberately. The man was still trying to back away, still trying to survive, but his legs were giving out. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the platform.
Marcus grabbed him by the hair and looked into his eyes. The drug-induced madness was fading, replaced by something else. Fear. Understanding. The knowledge that this was the end.
"You fought well," Marcus said. Then he pushed.
The Butcher went over the edge without a sound, his hands still clutched to his throat. The crowd counted down his fall like it was New Year's Eve, and when he hit the rocks below, they erupted into cheers.
Marcus stood at the edge, breathing hard, blood dripping from his wounds. The cleaver had done serious damage—he could feel it with every breath, every movement. But he was still standing. Still alive.
Still hungry for more.
The announcer's voice boomed across the quarry. "UNBELIEVABLE! THE APEX PREDATOR TAKES DOWN THE BUTCHER! BUT WAIT—LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE HAVE A SPECIAL SURPRISE! KADE HIMSELF HAS AUTHORIZED A THIRD MATCH TONIGHT! IF APEX CAN SURVIVE ONE MORE FIGHT, HE'LL MOVE DIRECTLY INTO THE TOP TEN RANKINGS!"
The crowd went insane. Marcus looked up at the VIP platforms, searching for Kade, but the man was hidden in shadow. He could feel eyes on him, though. Watching. Evaluating.
Testing.
"INTRODUCING HIS NEXT OPPONENT—A FIGHTER WHO'S NEVER LOST AT THE EDGE! THE SILENT DEATH! WHISPER!"
Marcus turned toward the bridges, expecting another opponent to emerge. But the platform remained empty. The crowd's noise died down to confused murmurs. Where was—
Pain exploded in Marcus's back.
He spun around and saw her—a woman, small and slight, dressed in form-fitting black that made her almost invisible in the shadows at the edge of the platform. In each hand, she held a blade, thin and curved like a scalpel, both of them dripping with Marcus's blood.
She'd been on the platform the whole time. Hiding. Waiting.
Whisper didn't speak. She just smiled and vanished into the shadows again.
Marcus's instincts screamed danger. This wasn't like the Butcher's straightforward brutality or Raptor's aerial assault. This was something else entirely—a predator who hunted from the darkness, who struck without warning and disappeared before you could retaliate.
He scanned the platform, his enhanced vision trying to pierce the shadows, but the spotlights were working against him, creating pools of darkness where Whisper could hide. His wounds were slowing him down, making him vulnerable. Blood loss was starting to affect him—he could feel it in the slight tremor in his hands, the way his vision was starting to narrow.
Another slash, this one across his thigh. Marcus spun and lashed out with his claws, but hit only air. Whisper was already gone.
The crowd was silent now, watching with bated breath. This was different from the previous fights—there was no roaring, no dramatic exchanges. Just a wounded predator being slowly bled out by something he couldn't catch.
Marcus forced himself to think. Whisper was fast, but she was also small. Her blades were sharp, but they weren't doing massive damage—she was going for cuts, for blood loss, wearing him down. She was patient.
But patience required time. And time was something Marcus could use.
He moved to the center of the platform and dropped to one knee, his hand pressed against the wound in his side. He let his head hang, let his breathing become labored and ragged. He made himself look defeated.
Come on, he thought. Take the bait.
He heard it—the softest whisper of movement behind him. Felt the displacement of air as Whisper moved in for what she thought would be the killing blow.
Marcus's tail whipped around like a club.
It caught Whisper in mid-strike, hitting her in the ribs with enough force to lift her off her feet. She flew backward and hit the grating hard, her blades skittering away across the platform.
Marcus was on her before she could recover. He pinned her to the grating with one hand around her throat, his claws pressing against her skin hard enough to draw blood.
Up close, he could see her clearly for the first time. She was young, maybe early twenties, with short dark hair and eyes that held no fear, even now. She wasn't enhanced—no scales, no cybernetics, no obvious signs of drug use. Just a human woman with blades and skill.
And she'd almost killed him.
"How?" Marcus asked, his voice rough.
Whisper smiled. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, forcing Marcus to lean closer to hear. "You're strong. Fast. Dangerous." She coughed, blood flecking her lips. "But you're still learning. Still figuring out what you are." Her smile widened. "I've been doing this for three years. I know exactly what I am."
"What's that?"
"A survivor."
Her hand moved, faster than Marcus could track. He felt something cold press against his throat—she'd had a third blade, hidden somewhere on her body. One quick slash and she could open his jugular.
They stared at each other for a long moment, predator and prey, each holding the other's life in their hands.
Then Whisper's hand relaxed. The blade fell from her fingers and clattered against the grating.
"I yield," she said quietly.
The crowd erupted in boos and jeers. They wanted blood, wanted death, wanted to see Marcus tear her apart like he had the others. But Marcus just stared at her, confused.
"Why?"
"Because you let me speak," Whisper said. "The others never do. They just kill." She looked up at him with those fearless eyes. "You're different. You're not just a monster. Not yet."
Marcus stood, releasing her. Whisper got to her feet slowly, retrieving her blades. She gave him a small nod, then walked to one of the bridges and disappeared into the darkness.
The crowd was still booing, but Marcus didn't care. He'd won. Three fights, three victories. He'd earned his place in the top ten.
But as he stood there, bleeding and exhausted, he realized something. Whisper had been right. He was still learning, still figuring out what he'd become. The transformation had given him power, but power alone wasn't enough. He needed skill. Strategy. Understanding.
The handler appeared on the platform, flanked by medical personnel carrying a stretcher. "That's enough for tonight," she said. "You've proven your point. Kade is... impressed."
Marcus let them lead him off the platform, back down the narrow bridge to the staging area. Ferro was there, watching with an expression Marcus couldn't quite read.
"Three fights in one night," Ferro said quietly. "And you survived all of them. That's... that's never been done before. Not at the Edge."
Marcus didn't respond. He was too busy thinking about Whisper's words, about what came next. He'd climbed the rankings fast, maybe too fast. And the higher he climbed, the more dangerous the opponents would become.
The Syndicate was testing him, pushing him, seeing how far he could go before he broke.
And Marcus realized, with a mixture of excitement and dread, that he had no idea what his limits were.
Or what he'd have to become to survive finding out.