Zayne couldn't sleep.
The headset pulsed blue on the floor beside his mattress, slow and steady like it knew he'd give in eventually. His body ached from the Widow match—knuckles raw, ribs bruised, jaw tender where her precision had left pinpricks of pain. But it wasn't the soreness that kept him awake.
It was the half.
Half a fight. Half the credits. Half the rank.
Void didn't reward almost.
He replayed every moment in his head—her mask tilting, her balance perfect, the way she dismantled him without even finishing. He'd grazed her once. Once. And the system had shut it down before he could prove anything.
He clenched his fists until they trembled. "Next time…"
A knock rattled his door.
Zayne tensed, but it wasn't the landlord. The voice was familiar, bright but edged with business.
"Open up, rookie."
He unlocked it.
Nia stepped inside without waiting, blazer sharp, tablet in hand. She didn't sit. She scanned the room like a health inspector in a condemned kitchen.
"You look terrible," she said cheerfully.
"Feel worse."
She tapped her screen. "Half-pay's standard for initiations if you can't finish. Consider it an incentive."
Zayne's jaw flexed. "I didn't lose."
"You didn't win either." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "Void doesn't care about effort. Only results. And results aren't measured in almosts."
The words slid under his skin like glass. He hated how right she was.
"You'll get another chance," she added, softer. "If you don't blow it."
Before he could answer, the headset pinged. A clean tone that made the room feel smaller.
Zayne grabbed it. Across the visor, letters scrolled:
NEXT MATCH: 48 HOURS. ACCEPT OR FORFEIT.
WARNING: VOID DOES NOT ISSUE SECOND CHANCES.
His stomach twisted. Forfeit meant nothing. Nothing meant broke. And broke meant… he shook the thought away.
"Zayne, wait."
Nia's voice had dropped its playfulness.
He froze, headset in hand.
"You just got out of initiation. You're bleeding through your shirt. And your first instinct is to throw yourself back in?"
He stared at her, jaw set. "If I don't accept, it's over."
"You think the system doesn't know how desperate you are?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "That's how Void eats people. The fights become the only thing that matters. Then one day, there's nothing left but credits on a screen and your body in the ground."
Zayne met her gaze, fire in his own. "Better that than going back."
He hit accept before the prompt even repeated.
The world rebuilt itself around him.
This time, the arena wasn't polished steel or a glowing stage. It was a subway tunnel left to rot—grime on tiled walls, rusted tracks, water dripping from overhead pipes. The stench of iron and oil thick in the air.
The crowd pressed against chain-link fences on either side, faces shadowed, eyes burning neon through the dark. They didn't cheer. They snarled, waiting for blood.
The announcer cracked through static:
VOID FIST MATCH #F-93232: ZAYNE WARD VERSUS "CROWBAR."
A figure ducked under the flickering arch opposite him.
Thick. Broad. Arms like cables. His fists were wrapped not in tape but in strips of leather bolted with metal studs. His boots had steel caps. His jaw was crooked, like it had been broken and never set right.
Crowbar.
He spat on the ground, rolled his neck, and pounded one studded fist into his open palm. The sound echoed down the tunnel like a warning shot.
Zayne set his stance, breath sharp. His body still hurt, but his mind was locked. He wasn't leaving this tunnel with half.
"Begin."
Crowbar moved first. Not fast. Just heavy. Each step thudded against concrete, shoulders swaying with casual menace. He didn't circle. He didn't test. He walked straight through the center line, daring Zayne to meet him.
Zayne struck first—a jab to probe, then a cross. Crowbar absorbed both like a wall and swung back with a hook that howled past Zayne's head, close enough to rattle air.
The power in it made his ribs ache just imagining the contact.
He ducked, fired a counter to the body, and caught nothing but slab. Crowbar laughed, teeth jagged.
"Little man thinks he's quick."
Then the storm hit.
Crowbar's fists came in wide arcs, each one carrying the weight of a falling beam. Zayne slipped, rolled, and pivoted—his training screaming through muscle memory. He stayed tight, feet set, just like Strike Feedback had drilled. When he tried to counter, Crowbar didn't redirect like Widow. He took the hits. Took them and kept coming, like pain wasn't part of his vocabulary.
One punch clipped Zayne's shoulder and spun him halfway around. The next slammed into his guard, rattling his bones. His arms numbed. His lungs burned.
He knew then—the Widow had studied him. Crowbar just wanted to break him.
And if he hesitated, he would.
Zayne snapped back with a burst—jab, cross, hook—each one sharper, tighter than last week. His feet were cleaner, pivots crisp. Crowbar grunted at the last shot, a hook to the ribs that sank deep.
"Better," the brute growled, almost pleased. Then he swung a hammerfist that cracked the ground where Zayne had been standing a half-second earlier.
Zayne kept moving.
He felt his stance hold steady this time. He remembered the numbers—stance stability: 42%. He dug into the ground, tightened his core, and fired a straight that landed flush on Crowbar's jaw.
The man staggered. Not far. But far enough.
Zayne pressed. Combinations, each one built from fear of falling back to nothing. His fists ached. His ribs screamed. But he didn't stop.
Crowbar tried to swing wide again, and Zayne stepped inside the arc. Tight, ugly. He drove his elbow across the man's jaw, then followed with a hook that cracked louder than the crowd.
Crowbar dropped.
The tunnel shook with noise.
WINNER: ZAYNE WARD.
PAYMENT: 5,000 CREDITS.
RANK STATUS: PENDING (PROGRESSED).
NOTE: IMPROVED STRUCTURE. HIGH AGGRESSION. WATCH CLOSELY.
The lights flickered. The crowd dissolved. The tunnel faded.
Zayne ripped the headset off, chest heaving. Sweat soaked his shirt. His arms trembled from the adrenaline dump.
His phone lit up:
VOID FIST CREDIT: +5,000.
He collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. Relief hit first—rent covered, food guaranteed.
He leaned forward, reaching for the headset again—
"Don't."
Zayne froze.
Nia was sitting in his one chair, legs crossed, tablet on her lap like she'd been there the whole time. Her blazer was perfect as always, but her expression wasn't. It was sharp, yes—but beneath it, something softer.
"You just finished," she said evenly. "And you're already reaching for it again?"
He scowled, wiping blood from his lip. "You didn't leave? Then you saw it. I won. Full credits this time."
"I did. I'll see whenever you win or lose." She set the tablet down, leaning forward. "But I also saw the way you nearly broke your arm throwing wild. The way that Widow broke you down. The way you couldn't stop chasing. That's not control, Zayne. That's hunger."
"Better than broke." His voice was flat, defensive. "Better than empty."
Her gaze softened, just a fraction. "That's what scares me."
He frowned. "Scares you?"
"You're not fighting for something. You're fighting because you're afraid of having nothing. And that fear? It's how Void Fist eats people alive. I've seen it before."
Her words landed like body shots. Zayne looked away, jaw tight.
Nia studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. "You're going to burn out. And I don't want to watch that happen."
Zayne blinked at her, caught off guard. "…Why?"
A smile tugged at her lips, smaller, realer than her usual handler grin. "Because you're cute, rookie. And because someone's got to keep that headset from becoming your girlfriend."
Zayne almost laughed, despite himself. Almost.
Nia straightened. "So. You and me. Dinner. My treat. No fights, no Void talk. Just food."
He stared at her like she'd just spoken another language. "…You're serious?"
"Dead serious." She smirked, softer this time. "Think of it as balance. Fighters last longer when they're not hollow inside."
His eyes drifted back to the headset, still pulsing blue on the mattress. His fingers twitched.
But Nia's gaze pinned him, steady and human in a way the machine never was.
Finally, he let the headset fall back onto the bed.
"…Dinner," he muttered.
"Dinner," she echoed, standing. She smoothed her skirt and dropped her card on the nightstand. "Pick a night before your next match. And clean yourself up, Ward. You smell like rust and ramen."
Her heels clicked toward the door. Just before she left, she glanced back with that same soft smirk. "Don't keep me waiting."
Then she was gone.
The apartment was quiet again, except for the steady blink of the headset.