The scanner beeped again.
Zayne blinked, realizing he hadn't moved.
"Uh, hello?" the customer said, tapping a loaf of bread against the counter.
He shook it off and scanned it. "Sorry."
Beep.
Bag.
Next item.
Repeat.
Everything looked the same. The store. The lights. The slow drip of background music looping through the speakers. But Zayne wasn't there—not really. His body stood at the register. His mind was still in the cage.
Still hearing the sound of his fist breaking through that visor. Still smelling blood and static. Still wondering if it even happened at all.
That night, after his shift, he found the headset blinking. It hadn't made a sound since the last match. Now it pulsed soft blue—almost like it was breathing.
He put it on without hesitation.
No arena this time. Just a replay. His first fight. Every mistake in high definition.
A mechanical voice narrated over it, cold and emotionless:
"Flawed footwork. Hesitation at 0:44. Weak follow-through on right hook. Unstable center.
Assessment: Street instincts. No technical form.
Correction: Daily combat reinforcement. Controlled aggression is recommended.
NEXT ROUND: 7 DAYS. Prepare or perish."
REWARD: 5,000 credits.
The video ended. Just static.
Zayne pulled the headset off, jaw tight.
"Seven days... five thousand credits..."
The next morning, he hit the streets—not to survive this time, but to train.
He knew where the local gangs hung out. Knew the ones that would chase if provoked. So he started pushing buttons. Asking the wrong questions. Staring too long. Shoulder checking dudes who didn't like being touched.
He picked his fights carefully.Then he picked his exit.
Get in, land a hit, take one, run.
Do it again.
And again.
And again.
By the third day, they started recognizing him.
"Yo, that's the kid that cracked D-Rock in the alley!"
"Man, he fast—but that hook trash!"
They gave chase, cornered him more than once, but he learned fast. How to time a swing. How to drop his weight. How to breathe when your ribs burn and your legs won't stop shaking.
One fight turned into a two-on-one.
Then three.
He lost some.
Won a few.
Got smarter every time.
By day six, he wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was controlling the fights.
Blocking. Slipping. Baiting. Countering.
He felt it.
That shift.
His body moved cleaner. His mind processed faster. And when someone swung, he didn't flinch anymore—he read them.
Back at the apartment, his knuckles were raw, lip split, shirt torn.
He dropped onto his mattress with a grunt, sweat soaking into the sheets.
The city was quiet. For once.
His eyes drifted shut.
Ping.
The headset blinked again.
Soft blue. Steady.
Zayne didn't even move.
He just smirked to himself.
"I'm ready."
The room dissolved the second the headset clicked.
No countdown.No warning.Just the cold snap of a new arena flickering into focus—this time an underground parking lot, dim and damp, flickering lights hanging from exposed piping. Oil stains on the floor. Blood on the walls.
"ROUND TWO – INITIATING."
A single spotlight hit the center of the lot.
Zayne stood under it, fists wrapped, breath steady. His hoodie was gone—he wore a thin tank and reinforced gloves. Better grip, better motion.
Across from him stepped a man—taller, stockier, bald, wrapped hands raised like he'd done this his whole life. His footwork was tight, low center of gravity, jaw locked behind a custom mouthguard. Eyes like a shark.
The system chirped again:
Opponent: GARETH "HOLLOW HOUND" CREST.
Style: Professional Boxing.
Experience: 147 Matches. 126 Wins.
Status: Unranked (Void Fist Entry Pending)
Zayne swallowed.
No machines. No chains. No second chances.
Just a real man looking to break his face.
Ding.
The boxer moved first.
Zayne expected heavy footfalls. He got silence. Gareth glided, launching a jab that barely missed Zayne's jaw. Zayne twisted back, pivoted on instinct, and launched a counter-hook.
Crack.
It landed.
The man didn't flinch.
He stepped in, head low, and buried a right cross into Zayne's ribs.
Zayne staggered, gritting his teeth as the pain lit up his side.
It wasn't like the first fight.
This was chess.
And Zayne was playing checkers.
The next thirty seconds were chaos.
Zayne ducked, slid, twisted—his speed just barely saving him from a knockout. Gareth's punches came with intent. He wasn't throwing to win points. He was throwing to end this.
Zayne hit back when he could—quick jabs to the body, hooks to the temple. He was faster. Much faster. But every time he landed a hit…
Gareth just absorbed it.
He needed power.
Halfway through the round, Zayne backed off, chest heaving, watching Gareth adjust his stance.
'Think. Think.'
"Speed's not enough. You don't win by dancing—you win by cracking something open."
He fainted left, darted in, and fired an uppercut—right under Gareth's guard.
It hit. Gareth blinked.
Zayne stepped in again, comboed—left, right, right to the ribs.
This time, Gareth grunted.
He felt that.
Gareth growled and charged in.
Zayne didn't run this time.
He stepped into the rush, ducked beneath the haymaker, and slammed a low jab into Gareth's liver. Gareth's whole body jolted.
That was it.
Zayne pivoted, drove his weight up, and unloaded a right hook across the man's jaw with everything he had left.
Crack.
Gareth dropped.
Ding.
ROUND TWO COMPLETE.
WINNER: ZAYNE WARD.
COMBAT RATING: IMPROVING.
NEXT RANK: PENDING.
REWARD: 5,000 CREDITS ISSUED.
Zayne stood there, fists still up, chest rising and falling like a war drum.
He didn't feel relieved.
He felt hungry.
The world pixelated.
The arena disappeared.
He woke up on his mattress. Same room. Same cracked walls. Sweat clung to his skin, and his heart still thumped like it hadn't left the fight yet.
He sat up slowly, fingers twitching.
They didn't hurt.
They should've.
His arm flexed tighter than usual. His back popped when he leaned forward. Muscles sore in places that weren't sore yesterday—places that hadn't existed like this a week ago.
Zayne looked down at himself. His body was changing. He could feel it.
And it wasn't from luck.
It was from work.
He stood and peeled off the blood-specked tank top, tossing it to the side. The floor creaked under his feet as he crossed the room to check his phone.
A new message blinked on the screen.
"Good progress. Clean your stance. Tighten your core. Round Three pending."
Zayne stared at it. The text disappeared after three seconds.
No sender. No reply option.
He didn't react.
He just glanced at the headset sitting quietly on the floor beside his mattress, still pulsing that soft blue.
Then he laid back down, arms behind his head, eyes already drifting shut.
He was getting better.
And there was still money on the table.