The gym didn't believe in comfort. It believed in results.
Zion learned that the moment he stepped inside.
A sharp whip cracked across the floor before he could even settle his footing. A resistance band snapped around his ankle and yanked tight, pulling him slightly off balance. He looked down, then across the room at Coach, who stood with his back turned, completely unbothered.
"…yeah," Zion muttered, "that's how we starting?"
"Late," Coach said flatly.
Zion glanced at the clock. "…I'm early."
Coach spat to the side. "You're late to getting better."
Zion exhaled slowly, already feeling the headache forming. "…man, here we go."
Before he could adjust—
CLACK.
Another band snapped around his other leg.
Then his waist.
Then his back.
By the time he looked down, he was completely tethered, tension pulling him in multiple directions like something that wasn't supposed to escape.
"…this feel illegal."
"Good," Coach replied. "Means it works."
A low growl rolled across the gym.
Zion's eyes shifted.
A cage door creaked open, and something stepped out.
Small—but wrong.
An atomic beast. Lean. Its cracked skin glowed faintly beneath the surface, like heat trapped under stone. Its eyes locked onto Zion instantly.
"…oh," Zion muttered. "…we doing this today."
"Rule one," Coach said.
Zion rolled his shoulders. "Don't get hit?"
"Wrong."
The beast lunged.
SNAP—
The bands yanked Zion backward mid-step. His balance broke instantly—center pulled, legs restricted, movement stolen before it even started.
"You don't control the fight," Coach said.
Zion barely caught himself as claws tore through the air where he had been.
"The fight controls you."
Zion steadied his breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
[…okay.]
He adjusted his stance, testing the tension instead of fighting it.
[…don't fight the bands.]
[…move with them.]
The beast charged again.
This time, Zion didn't resist. He let the pull guide him—
SLIP—
The attack missed by inches.
Zion's body moved on instinct.
THUD.
A short punch landed clean against the beast's side. It staggered—not down, but shaken.
Coach nodded once. "Better."
"Again."
The bands tightened.
Harder.
Zion grimaced. "Yo—these getting stronger or am I getting weaker?"
"Both."
Before he could respond—
SLAP.
Darkness.
"…seriously?"
"Vision lies," Coach said. "Pain doesn't."
A mechanical hum filled the gym.
Then—
WHIZZ—THUD—WHIP—
Gloves shot out from the walls—mechanical arms striking from every angle, each one moving at a different speed, a different rhythm.
Zion couldn't see.
But he could hear.
Air splitting.
Weight shifting.
Timing.
[…left high.]
[…low right.]
[…behind—]
He moved.
Barely.
A glove clipped his ribs.
Another grazed his jaw.
"…okay—yeah—this sucks."
"Too slow."
Zion inhaled.
Then everything changed—not the world, but him.
His thoughts sharpened.
[…patterns.]
[…this one delays.]
[…this one repeats.]
[…this one fakes.]
He stepped.
Slipped.
Pivoted.
Three strikes missed.
One landed.
"…I'm getting it—"
A glove slammed into the back of his head.
"…I HAD it."
Coach chuckled. "Thinking gets you hit. Feeling keeps you alive."
When the blindfold came off, Zion blinked—
—and froze.
"…what IS that?"
In front of him stood a monstrosity. A hybrid training dummy—wooden arms like a Wing Chun post, reinforced core like a makiwara, wrapped in cracked leather like something that had survived too many fights.
"You built this?" Zion asked.
"Broke three fighters testing it."
"…cool."
"Hit it."
Zion stepped forward and tapped it.
Nothing.
"…that's disrespectful."
He hit it again—harder.
CLACK—CLACK—
The arms snapped out instantly, striking back.
Zion barely blocked.
"…OH it hits back too?"
"Everything hits back."
Zion smiled.
"Alright then."
He stepped in again.
This time, he flowed.
Punch—block—elbow—redirect.
The dummy responded faster. Sharper.
Wood cracked against bone. Zion winced—but didn't stop.
[…don't fight it.]
[…read it.]
He adjusted.
Shorter strikes. Cleaner angles. Less wasted movement.
Then—
THUD.
The dummy stopped.
Zion lowered his fist, breathing steady.
"…ended it."
Coach nodded. "Now you're learning."
"Next."
Zion blinked. "…there's MORE?"
Coach pointed upward.
Buckets hung from the ceiling.
"…nah."
"Dodge."
They dropped.
Zion moved—slipped—ducked—
SPLASH.
Neon paint drenched him completely.
Silence.
"…too slow," Coach said.
Zion wiped his face, deadpan. "…I hate it here."
From the corner, a small radio crackled to life.
Jazz filled the room.
Zion paused.
Then smirked.
"…okay, now I'm locked in."
By the time training ended, Zion's body was wrecked—but his mind was sharper than it had ever been.
Coach stepped forward. "Say it."
"…say what?"
"The system."
Zion looked down at his hands.
Felt it.
The pulse.
The flow.
The pressure.
"…Resonance isn't power," he said slowly. "…it's pressure."
"Keep going."
"It's not about hitting harder…" His fist tightened. "…it's about deciding when it ends."
Coach smiled. "Good."
Outside, a distant rumble echoed.
Closer.
Zion looked toward the door, his eye flickering brighter.
[…something's coming.]
This time—
he didn't ignore it.
Zone 9 didn't breathe.
It buzzed.
Neon flickered even in daylight. Radiation fog hung low across broken streets. Music bled from somewhere—jazz mixed with static and distant sirens.
Zion stepped outside, shoulders loose, senses sharper now.
Kids ran past him laughing, a small glowing beast chasing them like a stray.
"…this place really normal to y'all?"
He already knew the answer.
No.
This wasn't normal.
This was survival.
Across the street, two men fought. No crowd. No reaction. Just fists, impact, and people walking past like it didn't matter.
Because here—
it didn't.
A low siren buzzed.
Shutters slammed down instantly.
"Inside! NOW!"
Zion turned.
Something stepped out of an alley.
A Volt Hound.
It didn't look at bodies.
It listened.
Heartbeats.
Zion slowed his breathing immediately.
[…don't react.]
[…don't spike.]
Someone else panicked.
"YO WHAT IS—"
Too late.
CRACK—
The beast vanished—then reappeared.
The man dropped.
Silence.
The creature stood over him…
Then walked away.
Like nothing happened.
Shutters lifted.
Life resumed.
Zion clenched his fists.
"…so that's the rule, huh…"
Weak energy gets eaten.
Night fell.
Zion walked alone.
Then—
his eye pulsed.
Harder than before.
He looked up.
A figure stood on a rooftop.
Watching.
Still.
"…you been there this whole time?"
The figure vanished.
Zion didn't flinch.
CRACK—
A fist tore toward his head.
Zion tilted just enough—
missed.
"…you gotta be quicker than that."
The attacker landed behind him—hood up, bandaged fists, electricity crackling faintly.
Controlled.
"…thought you'd be slower."
Zion turned slowly.
"…nah."
A grin spread.
"…you just not fast enough."
The man moved.
Gone.
Zion's body reacted instantly—
SLIP—
A strike ripped past his face, shattering the ground behind him.
Zion stepped in.
JAB—
"…too loud."
COUNTER—
THUD.
The hit traveled through Zion's body, buzzing through his nerves.
"…what the—"
"…pressure current."
Zion flexed his hands.
[…annoying.]
He exhaled.
[…break the rhythm.]
His stance shifted.
Looser.
Ugly.
The man attacked again—
HOOK—
Zion dipped late—on purpose.
The punch grazed him—
RECOIL—
BOOM.
The counter slammed into the man's ribs.
He slid back.
First time.
"…I don't fight pretty," Zion said.
"…I fight real."
Static intensified.
The man came again—faster.
Zion's eye flared.
A line.
A path.
He leaned—
barely.
The strike grazed.
Zion stepped in.
Too close.
ELBOW—CRACK.
KNEE—THUD.
No space.
No reset.
Punch—block—elbow—clinch.
They collided at close range, pressure against pressure.
Zion grinned.
"…yeah."
BOOM.
Short-range recoil punch.
The man flew back, skidding across the pavement.
Silence.
He stood again.
"…you're not supposed to be this developed yet."
"…what?"
"…you'll get hunted."
Zion's grin faded slightly. "…by who?"
"…you'll see."
Then—
he vanished.
The street returned to normal.
Zion stood there.
Then laughed.
Low.
Excited.
"…yeah."
He cracked his knuckles.
[…this what I needed.]
His eye flickered toward the skyline.
[…but that wasn't everything.]
A pause.
His smile thinned.
[…not even close.]
Something bigger was coming.
And next time—
it wouldn't be training.