Five hundred credits.

  Marcus stared at the green pill resting in his palm. It was small, innocuous, with black lines spiraling around its casing like a warning label written in a language only the desperate spoke. Five hundred credits.

  It was an obscene amount of money. It was the rent. It was three weeks of food. It was almost the entire purse he had scraped together from the last time he bled in this locker room. But as he flexed his right knee, feeling the familiar, grinding catch of bone on cartilage, he knew it wasn't a purchase. It was an investment.

  He chucked the pill into his mouth and swallowed it dry.

  The taste was bitter, chemical, and sharp—like licking a battery. It hit his stomach and dissolved instantly, sending a rush of cold heat through his veins. The sterile, synthetic taste clashed violently with the locker room’s permanent perfume: stale urine, dried blood, and the sour reek of fear. He gagged, a wet, heaving sound, but forced it down. He had to keep it down.

  Marcus stood up. He waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Then, the heat settled. The grinding in his knee didn't vanish—magic didn't exist in Sector 4—but it dulled. The sharp, stabbing needle that usually accompanied every step was replaced by a thick, muffled numbness. A synthetic cushion.

  He swung his arms, testing the rotation of his shoulders. Left, right, pivot. The rust was still there, but someone had poured grease into the gears.

  The door creaked open. Roach stuck his head in, the eternal cigarette clinging to his lip. He looked Marcus up and down, noting the slightly easier stance.

  "Looks like someone’s feeling young," Roach whistled, though his eyes were tight with worry. "Or just high."

  "Necessary maintenance," Marcus grunted, shrugging off his canvas jacket. He reached for his mouthpiece, the rubber familiar and tasting of old battles.

  "Crowd's rabid tonight, Marcus," Roach said, stepping fully into the room. He didn't have his usual sleazy grin. "They didn't come to see a fight. They came to see a sacrifice. The bookies have the odds at ten to one. Against you surviving the first round."

  "Tell me the odds on me winning," Marcus said, popping the mouthpiece in.

  Roach paused. "There aren't any odds for that, Piston. The board just says 'N/A'."

  Marcus nodded grimly. "Good. Less math."

  He walked out.

  The hallway to the arena usually vibrated with the bass of the club above, but tonight, the vibration was different. It was deeper. Animalistic. As Marcus stepped through the curtain, the noise hit him like a physical blow. The arena—Silas’s drained reservoir—was packed beyond capacity. Scavengers hung from the catwalks; corporate slummers in clear plastic raincoats pressed against the chain-link barriers. The air was thick with the smell of cheap alcohol, ozone, and bloodlust.

  But it was the energy that unnerved him. Usually, they cheered for blood. Tonight, they were cheering for the Future.

  "And in the red corner!" the announcer screamed, his voice cracking over the distorted PA system. " The Relic! The Rust Bucket! Give it up for the man who doesn't know when to lie down... The Piston!"

  A mix of boos and jeers rained down. A beer cup bounced off Marcus’s shoulder. He didn't flinch. He just climbed into the ring, testing the damp concrete floor with his boots. The numbness in his knee held.

  "And in the blue corner..."

  The lights in the arena cut out. A single violet spotlight slammed onto the entrance ramp. The bass drop shook the fillings in Marcus's teeth.

  "Sector 4's very own evolution! The Spark in the Dark! JOLT!"

  He came out running.

  Jolt. He looked shockingly like Kian Rask. He had the same compression suit, though this one looked scuffed, second-hand. He had the same neon hair, though Jolt’s was a jagged, uneven dye job. But the movement...

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. Kian moved like a glitch in the simulation—smooth, instantaneous, terrifyingly graceful. Jolt moved like a video buffering on a bad connection. He twitched. He jerked. His head snapped back and forth in rhythmic, chemical spasms.

  He was a degraded copy. A bootleg version of a god.

  But as Jolt vaulted the ropes, clearing the top line by two feet, Marcus saw the eyes. The pupils were blown so wide the irises were invisible, just black holes rimmed in violet. The Pulse serum. He was high on the volatility.

  The crowd roared, a sound that threatened to bring the ceiling down. They chanted Jolt’s name, hungry for the new age to crush the old.

  Marcus stepped to the center. He felt heavy. Solid. An anchor in a storm.

  Roach stood between them, looking small and fragile. "Touch gloves. No biting. No eye-gouging. Keep it clean."

  Jolt didn't touch gloves. He vibrated. "You look slow, old man," he hissed. His voice was sped up, chipped. "You look like a statue."

  "Statues are hard to break," Marcus rumbled.

  Roach chopped his hand down. "Fight!"

  Jolt vanished.

  There was no setup. No jab. Jolt simply exploded from his stance. To the crowd, he was a blur. To Marcus, he was a sudden shift in air pressure. Marcus didn't try to track him visually. Too fast. Instead, he trusted the one thing the serum couldn't hack: Geometry. He instinctively shelled up, elbows tight to his ribs, chin tucked.

  Wham-Wham-Wham-Wham.

  Four punches landed on Marcus’s forearms in less than a second. The impact wasn't heavy—not like Odin’s truck-like hits—but they were sharp, stinging, and relentless. It was like being hit with a bag of ball bearings. Marcus grunted, sliding back a step. He tried to peek through his guard, to find a target, but Jolt was already gone. A hook slammed into Marcus's kidney. Left side. An uppercut snapped his head back. Center. A chopping right hand caught him on the ear. Right side.

  "Too slow! Too slow! You're lagging!" Jolt screamed, his voice circling Marcus like a mosquito.

  Marcus pivoted, throwing a blind left hook. It cut through empty air. The wind of his own punch threw him off balance.

  CRACK.

  Jolt’s boot connected with Marcus’s jaw.

  The world tilted sideways. Marcus stumbled, his vision swimming in a sea of static. He crashed into the chain-link fence, the metal mesh biting into his back. The crowd went feral.

  "Kill him! Scrap him!"

  Marcus shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. Damage report. Jaw hinge loose. Ribs bruising. But the knee... the knee was holding. The 500-credit pill was doing its job. Jolt was dancing in the center of the ring, playing to the crowd. He was doing a shuffle, his feet moving so fast they blurred. He was arrogant. He was high.

  And he was breathing hard.

  Marcus caught it. A small detail. Jolt’s chest was heaving. The Pulse serum overclocked the metabolism, turning the body into a furnace. Kian Rask had been a finely tuned engine; Jolt was a car running on nitrous with a cracked radiator.

  He burns hot, Marcus realized. He burns fast.

  Marcus pushed himself off the fence. He didn't raise his fists. He lowered them slightly.

  "Is that the best you got?" Marcus growled, spitting a wad of blood onto the concrete. "My grandmother hits harder."

  Jolt’s face twisted in a manic rage. "Dead man!"

  He charged again. This time, Marcus didn't just shell up. He began to march. He walked straight into the storm. Jolt unleashed a flurry of jabs, aiming for Marcus’s eyes. Marcus took them on the forehead, the thick bone absorbing the impact. Sting. Sting. Sting. He kept moving forward, cutting off the ring.

  Step. Ache. Adjust.

  Jolt circled right. Marcus cut him off. Jolt circled left. Marcus was there.

  The "Piston" style wasn't about speed. It was about pressure. It was about taking away the space the speedster needed to accelerate.

  "Get off me!" Jolt shrieked. He planted his feet and threw a loaded right cross, putting his hips into it.

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  Mistake.

  Speed requires lightness. Power requires planting the feet. For a fraction of a second, Jolt stopped vibrating. He became solid. Marcus saw the telegraph. He saw the shoulder drop. Time didn't slow down—Marcus wasn't a Pulse user. But experience made the moment crystal clear. He slipped to the left. The wind of Jolt’s punch brushed his ear.

  Marcus loaded his right hand. The "Piston."

  He drove his fist into Jolt’s solar plexus.

  THUD.

  The sound was different from the sharp cracks of Jolt’s hits. This was a dull, wet sound. Deep. Resonant. Jolt’s eyes bulged. The air left his body in a strangled squeak. For a moment, the violet light in his eyes seemed to flicker.

  But he didn't drop.

  The serum kicked in. Jolt’s system forced a reboot, overriding the pain signals. He gasped, a ragged, unnatural intake of air, and spun away.

  "Lucky shot!" Jolt yelled, though his voice wavered. He backed off, wiping drool from his chin. "You're just a punching bag with legs!"

  He came back in, but the rhythm had changed. He was angrier now. Sloppier. The "glitch" was getting worse. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated.

  He’s overheating, Marcus thought. The engine is rattling.

  Round two blurred into round three. Marcus was a ruin. His left eye was swollen shut. His ribs were definitely cracked; every breath was a jagged knife in his chest. But he kept pressing. He kept walking forward.

  The crowd had quieted down. They weren't cheering for the execution anymore. They were watching something they didn't understand.

  The "New Breed" was beating on the "Old Dog," but the Old Dog wouldn't stay down. The metal was dented, but the chassis held.

  "Die! Why won't you die?" Jolt screamed, his fists flying in a chaotic windmill.

  Marcus absorbed a hook to the temple that made his knees buckle. The numbness of the pill momentarily failed, a spike of agony shooting up his leg. He faltered.

  Jolt saw it.

  "Finish him!" someone screamed from the balcony.

  Jolt grinned. He stepped back, crouching low. The violet veins in his neck pulsed visibly. He was winding up for a finisher—a flying knee, a move designed for the highlight reels.

  The Razor’s Edge.

  Marcus swayed on his feet. He looked broken. His hands dropped to his waist. He looked like he was ready to fall.

  Come on, Marcus thought, screaming internally through the haze of concussion. Take the bait.

  Jolt launched.

  He flew through the air, a violet missile, his knee aimed directly at Marcus’s chin. It was perfect. It was fast. It was unstoppable. If Marcus had been where he was a second ago. But Marcus didn't retreat. He didn't dodge.

  He stepped in.

  It was suicide. It was madness. He stepped into the trajectory, removing the distance Jolt needed to extend the strike.

  Marcus caught Jolt’s knee on his chest.

  CRACK.

  Marcus’s ribs gave way. The pain was blinding, a jagged rivet driven through his chest. But he was still standing. And now, Jolt was suspended in the air, his momentum halted by Marcus’s mass, his body wide open. Jolt hung there for a heartbeat, eyes wide with confusion. He was airborne with nowhere to go.

  "Gravity wins," Marcus rasped, blood spraying from his lips.

  Marcus grabbed Jolt by the collar of his compression suit with his left hand, anchoring him.

  Then he unleashed the right.

  He didn't aim for the face. He didn't aim for the body. He aimed for the point of the chin, the button that shut off the lights.

  He put everything into it. The debt. The fear for Leo. The humiliation of the "Rust." The pain in his knee. The hatred for the city that ate people alive.

  The fist connected.

  It wasn't a punch. It was a collision.

  Jolt’s head snapped back so violently that sweat and saliva sprayed in a perfect arc under the spotlight. His feet left the ground. He spun in the air, a ragdoll cut from its strings.

  He hit the canvas face first.

  He didn't twitch. He didn't vibrate. He didn't glitch.

  He lay still.

  The arena choked. The bass stopped. The cheering stopped. Even the air recyclers seemed to pause. The crowd stared. They looked at the "Future"—the Pulse user, the superhuman, the evolution—lying in a heap of tangled limbs.

  Then they looked at Marcus.

  He was swaying, his face a mask of blood and bruising. He looked like a wreck. He looked like he was about to die. But he was standing.

  "One!" Roach shouted, his voice cracking in the silence. "Two! Three!"

  Jolt didn't move.

  "Ten! You're out!"

  The silence broke. But it wasn't the frenzied cheer of bloodlust. It was a roar of shock. A roar of realization.

  The Pulse users could bleed. They could be knocked out. They weren't gods. They were just meat and chemicals. And iron... iron was still hard.

  Marcus raised his hand. It was shaking uncontrollably.

  He looked out at the sea of faces. He saw the doubt in their eyes. He saw the fear.

  We’re not obsolete, he thought.

  Then the adrenaline crashed. The pain from his ribs rushed in like a tidal wave. The numbness in his knee evaporated, replaced by a screaming agony. The world turned gray, then black. Marcus’s legs folded. He collapsed onto the canvas, landing just inches from Jolt’s unconscious form.

  The last thing he heard was the roar of the crowd, chanting a name. Not Jolt’s.

  "Piston... Piston... Piston..."

  ---

  Beep... Beep... Beep...

  The sound was annoying. Regular. Rhythmic.

  It wasn't the dripping of a leaky pipe. It wasn't the thud of a bass line. It was clean. Electronic.

  Marcus opened his eyes.

  White.

  Everything was blindingly white. The ceiling was a pristine, seamless panel of soft light. The walls were cream-colored. The air...

  He inhaled. It smelled of lemon antiseptic and synthetic lavender. There was no sour reek of fear. No mold. No urine.

  The Overworld.

  Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in his brain.

  He tried to sit up, but his body screamed. His chest was wrapped tight in compression bandages. His leg was elevated in a stirrup.

  "Whoa, easy there, tiger."

  A nurse was standing by the monitors. She was young, her uniform a crisp, clean blue that looked like it had never seen a speck of grime. Her ID badge read Karin.

  "Where..." Marcus croaked. his throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. "Where am I?"

  "Sector 1 General," Karin said, checking a readout on the holographic display. "You took quite a beating. Three fractured ribs, a severe concussion, and your right knee... well, let's just say it’s seen better days."

  Sector 1. The High Sector. The Corporate Sector.

  The numbers flashed in Marcus’s mind. An ambulance ride to Sector 1: Two thousand credits. A night in a General Ward: One thousand. Trauma care: Three thousand.

  He was drowning. He had won the fight, but he had lost the war. The fees would swallow the purse, and he still owed Vargas.

  "My credits," Marcus gasped, fumbling for the side table. "Where's my pad?"

  "Relax, Mr. Graves," Karin said soothingly, pushing him gently back onto the pillows. "Your vitals are spiking."

  "Give me the damn pad!" Marcus roared, struggling against the sheets.

  Karin sighed and handed him the cracked, battered slate that served as his wallet.

  Marcus tapped the screen with trembling fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to look. He opened one eye.

  Balance: 3,100 Credits.

  He blinked.

  He checked the transaction log. Incoming: 3,000 Credits (Silas - Fight Purse). Incoming: 100 Credits (Balance from buying the Devil’s Vitamin).

  He scrolled down. Hospital Fees: 0 Credits (PAID). Trauma Surgery: 0 Credits (PAID). Recovery Suite: 0 Credits (PAID).

  "What?" Marcus whispered. He looked up at Karin. "This is a mistake. I can't pay for this place. Who paid this?"

  Karin checked her own chart. "The bill was settled upon admission. An anonymous benefactor. Priority clearance."

  "Who?"

  "I'm afraid I can't say. But you're lucky. People from Sector 4 don't usually get the Deluxe Package."

  "I don't want charity!" Marcus shouted, the confusion morphing into anger. "I need to know who owns me!"

  "Nobody owns you, Piston. Though, looking at that knee, I’d say the scrap yard has a claim."

  The voice came from the door.

  Marcus turned his head, wincing.

  Standing in the doorway was a small figure. He was wearing a lab coat that was clean, but wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it. His hair was a shock of white static, and his eyes were magnified to comical proportions by complex, multi-lensed goggles.

  Doc Halloway.

  He walked into the room, skipping slightly, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. He held a bag of gummy worms in one hand and a tablet in the other.

  "Doc?" Marcus said, his voice bewildered. "You paid for this?"

  "Me? Heavens no. I’m on a budget. Grants barely cover the coffee." Halloway popped a neon green worm into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "But I have friends. Or rather, interested parties."

  Halloway stopped at the foot of the bed. He tapped a button on the bedframe, and the holographic chart of Marcus’s body appeared in the air—a skeleton glowing with red warning zones.

  "Look at that," Halloway murmured, tracing the red line of Marcus’s knee. "Bone on bone. Ligaments like frayed rubber bands. And yet..." He looked at Marcus, his magnified eyes swirling with curiosity. "You beat a Pulse user. You broke the new toy."

  "He was sloppy," Marcus grunted. "He overheated."

  "He was an idiot," Halloway corrected. "But biologically, he was superior. You, my friend, are a statistical anomaly. You’re a glitch in the entropy."

  "Get to the point, Doc. Why am I here?"

  Halloway grinned, revealing teeth that were slightly too white. He leaned in close, the smell of peppermint and formaldehyde wafting over Marcus.

  "You're here because you proved a hypothesis, Marcus. That the metal is more important than the software."

  Halloway tapped the tablet, sending a file to Marcus’s datapad.

  "You need 50,000 credits for your brother, yes? Vargas has his claws in deep?"

  Marcus stiffened. "How do you know about that?"

  "I know things. I listen to the heartbeat of the city. And right now, the city is whispering your name."

  Halloway leaned back, spreading his arms.

  "I have a proposition. A way to clear your debt, fix that knee, and maybe—just maybe—kick Vargas in his perfectly tailored teeth."

  He paused, letting the silence hang in the sterile air.

  "How would you like to stop being a rusted sedan and become a tank? How would you like to enter the Apex Tournament... not as a victim, but as a weapon?"

  Marcus looked at the little man, then down at his shattered body.

  "I'm listening."

  Halloway winked.

  "Good. Because we have a lot of work to do, and I'm afraid the warranty on your current body has just expired."

  ---

  End of phase 1 - [The Old Dog]

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