- The Pianist Who Doesn't Play-
The East of the neutral zone wasn't a club tonight
just an old bar pretending to still be alive.
The lights were dim, amber bleeding through a haze of cigarette ghosts.
Three men sat hunched over separate drinks like strangers at the same funeral.
A jukebox in the corner coughed out a tune from before the city had walls.
Aria stepped in. The air tasted of dust and memory.
A bouncer behind a half-broken door eyed her once.
>"Who you looking for?"
>"The pianist."
>"You and everyone else."
He grinned, buzzed her through.
(The neutral zone-where the gangs keep their hands clean. Only men like Lucien dare to work here. )
Upstairs, the noise thinned to almost nothing.
The corridor was narrow, quiet.
She reached the end and pushed open a door that looked too clean for the rest of the place.
Inside: cold light, the hum of monitors, stacks of paper lined like soldiers.
No smoke here, no stench of liquor. Just the scent of metal and discipline.
And him.
Lucien sat behind a desk of glass and wire, sleeves rolled, long hair brushing his shoulders.
His eyes dark violet, catching the neon when he looked up, seemed to shift shade with the room.
He didn't stand. Didn't smile. Just kept typing with one hand, coffee cup in the other.
>"So,"
he said, voice calm, quick, practiced. "You're the >girl Rex sent."
>"Yeah."
>"Huh. Thought you'd be taller."
>"Sorry to disappoint."
>"Don't apologize. Most people do it worse."
He finally leaned back, eyes skimming her from boots to choker.
>"What's with the whole funeral couture? The black, the stare, the collar that screams I bite?"
>"It's a look."
>"It's a threat,"
he corrected, half a smirk in his tone.
>"Good. The streets respect costumes."
He gestured vaguely toward the chair.
>"Sit, or don't. I don't care. Just don't touch the screens."
She sat.
The hum of the monitors filled the pause.
>"You even know what you're asking for?"
Lucien asked finally.
>"You said, 'ask for the pianist. I'm asking."
>"Cute."
He took a slow sip of coffee.
>"These fights, they're not auditions. You don't join them, you survive them."
>"I can handle myself."
>"Hope so. Because once you're in, it's like being swallowed. The only way out is through teeth."
He eyed her, fingers drumming.
He studied her for a moment longer, then mimed the shape of a gun with his fingers, aiming lazily toward her jacket pocket.
>"Hope you've got something better than words hiding in there.
These fights don't wait for inspiration."
Before she could answer, her choker stirred.
A faint pulse of light ran along her neck
the DEATH mark shifting, glowing, just for a breath.
He caught it, eyes narrowing, but didn't say a word.
Only finished his coffee, set the cup down with quiet precision.
Then he rose.
He was taller than she expected
everything about him lined up too neatly.
The shirt pressed, sleeves rolled with the same precision you'd expect from a surgeon or a hitman.
His hair was dark and heavy, tucked behind one ear, revealing a faint burn mark near his temple
the kind that never quite fades, no matter how much you try to hide it.
When he moved past her, the air filled with the sharp, deliberate scent of cologne—expensive, controlled,
like he'd worn too much on purpose just to drown out the world.
For a second, she caught herself staring at the cut of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble,
the quiet steadiness in how he breathed.
There was grace in it. Controlled. Dangerous.
>"…Come with me."
The stairs creaked under their feet.
Down below, the air grew colder, cleaner.
No smell of beer, no noise, just space and a faint hum.
The room opened into a wide, low basement.
A single grand piano stood in the middle, its lid dusted gray.
Lucien brushed a hand across it, the streak he left catching the dim light.
>"You actually play?"
she asked.
>"Once."
He lifted the lid, sat, and pressed a few hesitant keys.
The sound was raw unpolished, tender.
Notes that didn't know where to go but went anyway.
The melody moved between them like smoke filling the silence, sinking into the floor.
Each note seemed to echo twice: once from the piano, and once from somewhere deeper inside the room.
Aria watched him, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Halfway through the melody, one note broke flat, ugly, defiant.
Lucien's jaw twitched.
He hit the key again, harder this time. Then once more, palm flat.
The piano answered, obedient now.
He exhaled through his nose, a quiet snort
half irritation, half satisfaction.
Aria caught it, and for a blink, saw the street still living under all that polish.
>"You know why they call me the pianist?"
>"Because you play?"
>"Because I don't."
He smiled faintly, still watching the keys.
The piano answered with a soft hum, a ripple that hung between them.
Outside, a pipe dripped in slow rhythm, joining the music like a metronome from another world.
Dust floated through the thin shaft of light that cut across the room, catching on every note.
>"That's the only tune I ever learned. I played it once.
People started talking. Started listening.
Called me the pianist.
I didn't correct them."
His fingers moved again, coaxing a line of sound that trembled, then steadied
like a heartbeat remembering itself.
>"You talk like someone who still thinks there's a clean way out.
There isn't. There's just the way that costs less."
He hit a low note, let it linger.
>"You don't have to be real, just consistent."
>"You sound like a con artist."
>"I sound like someone who survived long enough to get paid."
The final chord lingered in the air, vibrating like breath that refused to leave.
The melody softened, almost vanished, but kept breathing through the silence between their words.
The keys shimmered with dust, his fingers light, deliberate, as if he was coaxing a secret out of the air.
He finally turned to face her.
>"You know what your problem is?"
>"You tell me."
>"You walk like someone who's already lost everything.
That makes people nervous.
Makes me curious."
A pause.
>"Who'd you lose, Aria?"
The question hit like glass breaking.
She didn't flinch, but her jaw locked.
He didn't press. Just watched her silence stretch thin.
She stepped closer. Her reflection rippled across the black lacquer of the piano.
One hand on the lid, firm, claiming ground.
>"You think loss scares me?"
>"I think it defines you."
>"Maybe,"
she said.
>"But fear's cheap. Everyone's selling it."
She drew a slow breath.
>"I'm not here because I want to win, Lucien.
I'm here because pain's the only thing that still makes sense."
>"That a threat?"
>"That's honesty. You said this game's about pretending.
I'm done pretending I care about coming out clean."
Her eyes caught his in the half-light
green and tired and sharp.
>"So yeah. I'll fake it till I own it.
Not because I want to be somebody
but because I already know what it feels like to be nothing."
Lucien's gaze softened, just slightly.
> "You talk like someone who's already hit bottom."
>"Then I guess I built a home there."
He leaned back, exhaled slow.
The piano lid came down with a muted click.
>"Alright, Aria. You want in, you start at the bottom.
The pits, small rooms, no cameras, no glory.
You fight, you lose, you crawl back.
You survive long enough, I'll move you up."
He stood, stretched, voice low but sharp.
<"No one starts with fireworks.
Those arena fights you saw? That's rank. Nothing more.
You earn it."
He turned toward the stairs, then stopped. Looked back.
>"You know why I believe you?"
He stepped closer, voice soft, almost amused.
>"Because I told you to bring something you're not ready to lose,
and you showed up empty-handed."
He smiled, just barely, and walked out.
————-
- Wolves that wear ties -
No one understood profit and loss quite like Silas Vay.
He wore both like cologne, expensive, deliberate, a warning.
The office didn't look like a gangster's den;
it looked like a private club that had misplaced the music.
Polished marble floors, slow jazz from invisible speakers,
a decanter of whiskey catching the city lights in amber waves.
Everything gleamed-too perfect to be honest.
Silas sat behind his desk,
white suit crisp against the dark wood,
hair slicked back, every gesture controlled like choreography.
A gold chain winked at his wrist whenever he moved;
power, here, was a performance, and he was the headliner.
He didn't look up when the door clicked open.
Didn't need to. The rhythm of the footsteps already told him too much,
measured, expensive, government issue.
> "Mr. Vay,"
the voice said. Calm, almost bored.
>"You don't answer your encrypted line."
Silas poured whiskey, not offering any.
> "You people love your lines. Straight ones, dotted ones, crossed ones.
I prefer circles. You always end up where you started."
Agent Reyes stepped into view
gray suit, clean fade, tie like a blade.
He looked around the room not with curiosity but with routine,
as if running a silent checklist only he could see.
The badge at his belt caught the light:
E.R.A.S.E. -
" Enforcement and Recon Authority for Syndicate Elimination."
> "You always keep it this neat?"
Reyes asked, tone neutral.
<"Makes my job easier. Blood shows better on white."
Silas didn't smile.
He tipped the decanter, refilled his own glass.
> "To efficiency, then."
Reyes set a thin folder on the desk. Didn't sit.
> "Hell of a show last week. Your boys still know how to put on a blood opera.
But tell me,
since when do you start scanning for active ink at the door?"
Silas let the question hang, swirling the whiskey.
> "Depends who's asking."
> "Someone whose asset almost lit up like a Christmas tree,"
Reyes said flatly.
>"One of ours. You people nearly cooked him."
Silas leaned back, gaze sliding toward the window, the skyline flickering against the glass.
> "Pilot measure. Kaien's experiment.
He thinks filters keep the filth out."
Reyes folded his arms.
> "Next time your little science project endangers federal property, I expect a call."
Silas turned from the window, slow, deliberate.
> "You call it property. We call it survival.
Semantics, Agent."
He paused, met Reyes's eyes.
>"But you'll have your notice next time. Consider it handled."
Reyes's eyes thinned.
> "Semantics don't stop subpoenas."
Silas laughed once, low.
> "Neither do subpoenas stop ambition."
For a long moment, the room filled only with the hum of the jazz.
Two predators, dressed for different jungles.
Reyes adjusted his cuff.
> "You keep pretending you're untouchable,
Mr. Vay.
But every cage rusts eventually."
Silas's gaze didn't waver.
>"Then make sure you're not the one holding the keys when it does."
Reyes picked up the folder, turned toward the door
and paused, sensing motion behind it.
The latch clicked once.
> "You've got company,"
he murmured.
> "Story of my life,"
Silas said.
The door opened. Morrin of the Ash Crows stepped in, two shadows at his back.
Reyes and Morrin locked eyes—brief, silent, assessing.
A nod that wasn't quite polite.
> "Gentlemen,"
Reyes said.
> "Don't let me interrupt."
> "You're not,"
Morrin replied, voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
Reyes brushed past him on the way out,
and the room seemed to exhale as the door clicked shut behind them
leaving Silas and Morrin alone in the glow of the city's amber light.
---
The door closed behind Reyes with a soft thud, leaving the air dense with afterthought.
Morrin watched him go,
a smirk ghosting across the edge of his mouth not quite friendly, not quite threat.
Then he stepped inside fully,
dragging the city's chill in with him.
The ash on his coat caught the light as he pulled it off, tossed it over a chair like it was beneath him.
For a heartbeat, his gaze lingered on Silas
assessing, unreadable,
before his expression cracked into something warmer.
For a second, both men just looked at each other, then laughed quietly,
and pulled into a brief, rough embrace.
When they parted, Morrin's hand stayed on Silas's shoulder a heartbeat longer than it needed to.
> "My long-lost son,"
he said, half-teasing, half-sincere.
>"Didn't think I'd have to fight my way through feds just to see you."
> "You should've called first,"
Silas replied, brushing a wrinkle from his white sleeve.
>"They're very territorial."
Morrin grunted, eyes darting toward the door Reyes had vanished through.
> "You want me to take care of that one for you?
One less suit breathing down your neck."
Silas chuckled, heading for the decanter.
> "Touch him and they'll send another one, uglier and twice as curious."
He poured two glasses, handed one over.
>"Besides, if I didn't have all this money,
I doubt I'd get even this much 'love' from you."
Morrin accepted the drink with a dry smile.
> "Love's expensive, kid. I just bill mine quarterly."
They clinked glasses; the sound was soft, civilized, like a lie rehearsed.
Morrin leaned on the desk,
lowering his voice, forearms pressing flat against the polished wood.
>"That bitch from the Serpents—Nyx.
She's stirring again."
His fingers tapped once, twice, a rhythm of restraint.
>"Word is she's planning some revenge stunt over that ink shipment by the docks.
I thought that mess was buried."
Silas sipped his whiskey, eyes unfocused on the skyline.
> "It was. Apparently the dead can still tweet."
> "I'm serious,"
Morrin said.
> "She's moving muscle.
You know how she gets when she smells debt."
Silas turned, expression cooling.
> "Morrin, I'm not one of your Crows anymore.
Talk to Kaien if you want muscle.
I'm done refereeing old grudges."
> "Sure, sure,"
Morrin waved a ringed hand.
>"But at least throw us a bone
a show.
A Serpents vs. Crows brawl, one for the books.
People love nostalgia."
Silas raised an eyebrow.
> "You want a spectacle, call Lucien.
He sells blood prettier than anyone I know."
Morrin smirked.
> "You used to enjoy it more."
> "I used to enjoy cheaper whiskey,"
Silas said, lifting his glass.
>"Now I just buy both in bulk."
A beat passed
then Silas smiled, easing the tension.
> "Enough about vendettas.
What about my boy, Cole?
Rex's kid still breathing fire?"
Morrin's eyes softened.
> "Cole?
Yeah, kid's a damn fighter.
Still limping through that medical hell of his,
but he's built from good stock.
Reminds me I owe Rex a call."
Morrin set the empty glass down and smirked.
>"C'mon, pour us another. Let's pretend the world still makes sense for five minutes
Silas obliged. The ice cracked again—sharp, fleeting.
Outside, the city's amber lights flickered against the glass like restless ghosts,
and for a moment it almost felt like peace.
—————
- Between Grease and Grace -
The pizzeria's neon sign buzzed like it was dying slow.
Inside, the fryer hissed, the counter stuck to everything it touched,
and the clock had stopped pretending to move sometime around midnight.
Business as usual.
Aria sat cross-legged on the prep counter, helmet beside her, phone dead, patience deader.
Jarvis leaned against the soda fridge, joint dangling from his lips, eyes glazed with amusement.
Tarō was near the delivery window, half-asleep, half-scrolling,
the glow of his phone painting his face in ghost-blue light.
Jarvis leaned on the counter, watching Aria spin a pizza cutter between her fingers like it was a coin toss.
> "You break that again, it's coming out of your pay."
> "Good," Aria said. "Now I'll owe you nothing and have a weapon."
Tarō snorted without looking up from his phone.
> "Pretty sure that's how unions start."
Jarvis pointed at him with the lighter he'd been using as an ashtray.
> "Pretty sure that's how lawsuits start."
> "Relax," Aria said. "If I stab anyone, it's in the name of customer service."
> "You'd have to find a customer first," Tarō added.
Jarvis lit another cigarette from the stub of the last and exhaled toward the ceiling.
> "You kids are the reason I pray before breakfast."
Aria didn't look up from the cutter she was spinning.
> "You don't pray, Jarvis. You negotiate."
Tarō smirked.
> "Mostly with hangovers."
Jarvis raised a brow, slow.
> "At least hangovers talk back. You two just echo."
Aria flicked the cutter shut, slid it into her pocket.
> "Guess that makes you God then,
broke, tired, and still waiting for worship."
Tarō burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink.
> "She got you there, boss."
Jarvis sighed, muttering through the smoke.
> "Every prophet ends up broke."
The fryer hissed in the background, steady as rain.
Outside, the city kept breathing, wet, restless, alive.
Then the dispatch light blinked,
red, steady.
New job.
Jarvis checked the screen.
> "Order's dead. Nothing moving 'til one."
He waved his joint like a magic wand.
>"So either of you wanna clean something, or should I assume God's plan involves getting high?"
> "I'm heading out,"
Aria said, hopping off the counter.
>"Need air."
Jarvis eyed her.
> "Air? You allergic to it last week."
> "Therapy,"
she said.
>"Two wheels, no witnesses."
Tarō grinned.
> "Translation: she's bored."
> "Correct,"
Aria said, already grabbing her helmet.
>"And dangerous! when bored."
Jarvis sighed.
> "Just don't bring back cops, bullets, or stray dogs. I'm still feeding the last one."
> "No promises,"
she said, pushing out the door.
The bell above it clanged once,
and the rain swallowed her whole.
- First. Blood. -
The streets glowed wet, veins of light sliding under her wheels.
Each turn hummed different
a pulse she could almost feel in her ribs.
The world smelled like ozone and oil, like something waiting to burn.
Traffic lights blinked like tired saints.
Aria leaned into the wind, the scooter whining its mechanical prayer through the night.
The city never slept, but it did hold its breath.
When she reached Deacon's block, the rain had softened to a drizzle,
the kind that carried its own quiet.
The laundromat stood on the corner, light leaking from inside,
its faded sign half-lit: SUN BLEACHED.
She pushed the door open.
Warmth met her, detergent and dust and hum.
A dozen machines spun in half-sync, clothes tumbling like restless ghosts.
Coins rattled in the trays like votive offerings.
She slipped a coin into an idle machine, pressed start.
Water rushed.
As the drum turned, colors inside began to blur together: reds, blues, whites.
until the reflection spilling across the tiles looked like stained glass,
a chapel born of cheap detergent and city grime.
From the back room, a voice:
> "You came empty-handed."
>"You're fasting,"
she said, finally meeting his eyes.
A pause, then the faint scrape of a chair, soft footsteps on tile.
Deacon smiled before she even turned;
the kind of smile that heard the joke before the words.
He stepped into the light, linen jacket catching the fluorescent hum,
the cracked-sun mark on his brow throwing a thin shadow down his face.
The washers behind him spun slow halos that pulsed against the walls,
making him look half-ghost, half-sermon.
> "You came on your own this time,"
he said, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.
>"Usually I have to send the night to fetch you."
> "Guess I wanted to see what it looks like before it does,"
she answered.
> "Mm."
"And what do you carry this time, if not offerings?"
> "A secret,"
she said
His eyes drifted to the choker at her throat.
>"And a bad idea."
> "Sounds familiar."
She took a breath.
> "I decided to enter the fights."
Silence.
Only the hum of the machines.
Colors spun behind her like halos losing patience.
> "I thought maybe…"
she hesitated,
"…I could get your blessing.
Or whatever version of it you give people like me."
Deacon's smile deepened, small, knowing.
He looked at the swirling colors, then back to her.
> "You ask for a blessing to walk into violence,"
Deacon said, voice low, steady.
>"But violence isn't just fists or blood.
It's what happens every time we try to make the world bend our way."
He paced slowly beside the washing machines,
their spin filling the gaps between words.
> "People fight because they think something outside needs to change.
The truth is,
most of the battle is in here."
He tapped his chest.
>"The pride, the fear, the need to prove you still exist that's the noise that keeps us swinging."
Aria stayed quiet.
Water churned behind her, colors blurring like memory.
> "If you go into the ring just to hurt,"
he went on
>" "you'll come out emptier.
But if you go in to see,
to face what's already bleeding inside,
then maybe you'll learn something the pain can't take from you."
He stopped, looked at her fully.
> "It's not about winning, Aria.
It's about seeing what dies in you when you lose."
She frowned, not sure if it was comfort or a warning.
> "And if I lose everything?"
He smiled, quiet, sad, knowing.
> "Then you'll finally stop confusing loss with punishment.
Sometimes it's just the sound of what no longer fits… breaking."
Deacon's words lingered in the air a moment longer,
caught between the whisper of metal and the slow breath of water.
Then he lifted his gaze to her, calm, steady.
> "Come here."
Aria hesitated, then stepped closer.
The smell of detergent hung heavy, clean in a way the city never was.
He raised a hand, resting his palm lightly against her forehead.
His skin was warm, his touch precise
like a craftsman measuring distance.
> "Close your eyes,"
he said.
She did.
For a moment, there was nothing—only the quiet vibration of space,
two sets of lungs learning to share the same breath.
Then, softly ,almost as if to himself:
>"If the worlds were kinder,"
he murmured, touching her temple,
>"you'd carry a sun here instead of everything else."
>" But The neighborhood's overcrowded."
A small laugh escaped her, quick, nervous.
He smiled too, faintly, and lowered his hand.
> "Alright,"
he said.
> "Blessing granted."
It wasn't grand, no words of fire or omen,
just a quiet certainty, like a key turning once in the right lock.
For a heartbeat, something stirred at her throat.
The black choker — DEATH —
pulsed faintly, a breath of red light escaping through the seams.
The fluorescent bulbs above flickered
once, twice,
and then steadied.
Deacon's eyes opened again, one at a time, sharp with recognition.
A corner of his mouth twitched.
> "You know,"
he said slowly,
>" I don't think you're the one who needs luck."
Aria blinked, unsure if it was praise or prophecy.
He straightened, adjusting his sleeve, tone shifting back to business.
> "Off you go, then. Before I start charging admission."
She nodded once, quietly.
The hum of the washers filled the space she left behind.
When the door shut behind her,
the light flickered one last time
and then the laundromat was still again.
————————-
Fight night
Rain ticked on the skylights, oil fumes thick in the air.
Up in the viewing room, Morrin leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass half-full.
Lucien sat beside him, hands folded neatly, eyes sharp, unreadable.
Morrin:
> "We need a Crow–Serpent bout. Not some street brawl, a memory-maker. Something the city'll feel in its bones."
Lucien:
>"The city feels everything, then forgets. Give me a name. Give me a reason. I'll see if it plays."
Morrin (smirking):
> "Names we've got.
Reasons we've got too damn many."
He raised his glass, peering down through the fogged glass wall.
Below, the pit waited chalk lines glowing pale under neon, twenty onlookers crowding close:
bettors, bodyguards, and a few Star-Marked faces watching like hawks.
> Morrin: "Hold up… I know that girl."
Lucien:
>"Don't tell me she's your type. She looks half your age."
Morrin:
> "Please. Give me some credit. She's Deacon's courier...I remember now."
Lucien:
>"Figures. That girl's worming her way through this world faster than brokers with lifetime immunity."
Morrin: "Then let's see if she's meant to stay."
The announcer stepped into the center circle, voice crackling through the mic.
> "Three rules.
One: No names.
Two: No mercy once the mark glows.
Three: No debts left unpaid."
The crowd murmured the last one back, like a prayer.
The side door banged open.
Aria walked in, dropping her black bomber onto the railing.
Underneath: a dark tank top, taped wrists, eyes alight with sleepless heat.
Across the ring,
her opponent stepped from the shadows.
The sight froze her.
A familiar tattoo under a familiar eye
a faded turquoise star.
It hit like cold water.
> Aria (under her breath):
"orrin."
For a moment they just stared
twelve years collapsing between them:
dusty courtyards, fights that ended with blood and silence.
Same eyes. Same mark.
The family she ran from, but never quite escaped.
Aria's gaze lifted, through the reflection above, she caught Lucien watching.
She spread her hands:
"Why?"
Then tapped beneath her own eye:
"Why another Star-Marked?"
Lucien only shrugged:
"It is, what it is."
Down below, Tarō hovered at the edge of the crowd, half hiding his phone.
Onscreen, Cole and Rex, watching from opposite corners of their worlds.
> Cole: "Don't zoom in, you'll jinx it."
>Rex: "Give her space, son. You can smell trouble through pixels."
The bell rang.
The marks under their eyes flared at once
two sparks of turquoise.
Then they were gone, replaced by motion
boots scraping, air splitting, noise folding in on itself.
Orrin struck first: a feint left, rush right
her palm slammed for the chest.
Aria twisted, slipped under, threw a short jab to the ribs.
Orrin spun, swinging a back-elbow.
Aria caught a steel column,
pivoted, one graceful tock of her heel
and swept orrin clean off her feet.
Face-first impact.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The ref stepped forward.
Orrin lay still, limp, breath shallow, one arm twisted under her like a broken wing.
For a moment, she looked done.
Even the pit seemed to hold its breath.
From the edge of the crowd, Tarō's voice cracked through the quiet:
> "That's it? Seriously? I waited two hours for this?"
Onscreen, Cole's laugh came through the static.
> "Guess your girl's got an early night."
Rex snorted.
> "Don't blink, son. Some fights fake their own funerals."
Then, Orrin's fingers twitched.
She moved fast, scooping up a fistful of gravel, flinging it upward.
Tiny cuts bloomed across Aria's cheek and eyelid.
She blinked through blood, flinching back, hands half-blind.
Cole's tone flipped, sharp now:
> "Whoa—what the hell was that?"
Rex again, lower this time:
> "Told you. Never trust the still ones."
Orrin lunged again
grabbing for the choker at Aria's neck.
Her fingers brushed metal.
Aria's eyes snapped wide.
Every muscle in her body locked at once
shoulders rigid, jaw clenched, breath caught mid-throat.
For half a second she didn't move,
like a wire pulled to breaking.
Then her pulse kicked, hard, uneven, panicked.
And the DEATH mark beneath her skin woke up.
A pulse, silent but real, crawling up through her throat like heat.
No one saw it, only she felt it.
Fear twisted, hardened, changed shape.
Her scream wasn't human
it was mechanical, tearing through the air.
Her arm moved before thought could catch it
a flash, a blur, the sound of air breaking.
By the time Orrin even registered movement, Aria's hand was already in her hair,
the other at her collar.
Then, impact.
She drove Orrin's head into the aluminum beam.
The crack echoed, clean and merciless.
Orrin dropped to her knees.
Aria followed,two blows to the ribs, one to the jaw,blood freckling the mat.
She yanked orrin upright and hurled her into the wall, denting the metal.
Orrin clawed for the choker again—
fast, but flickering, her movements stuttering like a dying light.
The first hit had scrambled her rhythm; her speed came in broken bursts now.
Aria saw it—half a heartbeat ahead—
spun, locked an arm under Orrin's chin, and drove her forward.
The impact sent both of them crashing through the gear table.
Tools exploded across the floor,
metal shrieking,
a fire extinguisher clanging loose and rolling toward the pit's edge.
Aria caught it mid-roll.
Her breath came ragged, feral—
inhale, exhale, inhale—each one sharper than the last.
For a second she just stood over Orrin, trembling with contained voltage.
Then she swung.
The metal cylinder met bone with a wet, hollow sound.
Teeth and blood scattered like shrapnel.
The crowd recoiled as one.
Then,
high above the pit, behind the glass, Lucien rose.
He didn't shout. Didn't blink.
Just lifted his hand
two fingers, clean, deliberate,
a single gesture that cut through the chaos like command through static.
Down below, the ref caught it.
Stumbled forward, voice cracking.
> Ref: "Stop! That's it—stop!"
Orrin sagged in Aria's arms,
half-conscious, blood stringing down her chin.
Her star flickered once,then died.
Aria's breath came rough and fast,
each exhale scraping the air, fogging the neon above her.
The hangar snapped awake
metal groaned, chairs scraped, voices spilling into one another.
Boots clanged on the catwalks, bets exchanged in low, electric murmurs.
The air itself felt bruised, vibrating from what it had just witnessed.
And somewhere through it all, one sound cut clean
> Tarō: "aria freaking ate her alive, bro!"
The camera in his hand shook with laughter,
Cole's cheer bled through the speaker, Rex whooping from a world away.
Aria didn't smile.
She just stood there, chest heaving,
the fire extinguisher still dripping red at her feet.
————-
Up top, Morrin exhaled slow.
> "The hell was that?"
Lucien:
> "A reminder."
The ref raised Aria's hand.
Tarō whooped, camera shaking.
> Cole (through static): "She's still standing…"
Rex: "Girl eats steel for breakfast."
Lucien came down the metal stairs, calm as paperwork.
He extended the payout
an envelope fat with bills.
Aria took it without looking.
> Lucien: "It's just business, yeah?"
She turned away.
Tarō fell in beside her.
> Lucien: "Hey, Aria,"
he called after her.
"Try not to make this sentimental.
Next round's for real."
She didn't turn.
The hangar door groaned shut behind her.
Morrin stayed at the window, glass in hand.
> Morrin:
"About that Crow–Serpent fight… we'll talk."
Lucien:
> "You bring the reason.
I'll bring the music."
Rain thickened.
Down below, the ring sat empty
reeking of blood and victory.
And somewhere in the metal bones of the hangar,
the memory had already begun to rust.
.