The entrance is tucked behind a vending machine near the back exit. 

Without the keycard, it's just another vending machine—dusty, flickering, filled with Sweet Beans, Hydrocrips, and every shade of Jolt Cola ever invented.

Jolt. Arcadia's most dangerous export after weapons.

 First time I drank it, I didn't sleep for three days. 

Spent the whole week modding EMP grenades, forgetting to eat or shower. 

Gross, I know. 

The caffeine content on those things were questionably high. 

It's no wonder why they're banned in most countries.

I swipe Spud's card.

The vending machine shudders. Then hisses.

Door slides open.

Inside, it's a different world.

Heat hits first—sweat, smoke, metal. 

Then the noise. 

Gear clanging. 

Voices shouting. 

Static blaring from busted speakers. 

The scent of fried oil and ozone clings to the walls like it's lived here longer than the fighters.

"Get lost, kid. We don't take in minors."

I glance up at the familiar face blocking my path. "Good evening to you too, Uruk."

The pudgy, tattooed man chuckles and steps aside. 

"Just keeping the nullskins out. Come on, prodigy. Your fan club's already forming."

I follow him through the maze of bodies and repair stalls, the scent of solder and engine oil thick in the air.

 My corner's already got a small line—broken limbs, scorched chips, a drone with a propeller hanging by a wire.

"Genesis made semis right after you burnered," Uruk says like he's talking weather.

"Good for them," I mutter, already unpacking my tools.

Uruk hums. "Guess you weren't their lucky charm after all."

I give him a look. "Guess not."

He laughs again, elbowing me lightly. "Relax, Kite. Just kicking static."

"You kick static any harder and I'll replace your left hand with a toaster."

"You'd make it a good toaster though," he says proudly.

"Only one setting: shut up."

Uruk lingers a beat longer than usual, like he's about to say something else—but then just shrugs and disappears back into the chaos.

I set up at my usual corner booth, toolbox already open. First in line is some nervous kid with a Sonic Blaster that smells like fried circuits.

"She's been shorting out mid-match," he mutters, eyes flicking everywhere.

I flip the blaster on. Nothing. Classic.

"Your transducer's toast," I say. "I can fix it. Gimme an hour."

"An hour? Lady, that's half my prep time!"

I nod. "I know. But unless you want it to blow up in your hand, you'll wait."

He grumbles and steps back.

I dive in. The wiring's a mess. 

Still, everything I'd used to fix this thing before was fresh—new boards, clean welds.

So why does it keep frying?

I swap wires. 

Test voltage. 

On the third try, the gun flares to life—for five seconds.

Then it dies again.

"You overrode the circuit."

I flinch. That voice.

Zeal.

He leans over my work like it's his own. "These wires are nanosteel, right?"

I nod, flustered. "Y-yeah."

"Too advanced for this board. It's choking on the power. You need carbon nanotubes, or plain old graphene if you're broke."

He's calm. 

Sure. 

Like someone who actually knows what the hell he's talking about. Which, apparently, he does.

I glance away from his face before I get caught staring.

"Most of the pit rigs are held together by gum and prayers. Save the nanosteel for something that won't explode."

"Right."

How did I miss that?

"Appreciate the tip," I mumble.

"Anytime," he says like he means it.

"Aren't you El Diavlos' mechanic?" my customer blurts. 

"I saw you on the stream last week!"

Zeal shrugs. "Just filled in. Their guy was sick."

"Still. Real terrain, real crowds. Not this pit scrap."

"Everyone starts in pits like this," Zeal replies. 

"Even Diavlos."

"Shame they lost."

"Wouldn't've if Rojo's suit hadn't frozen halfway in."

Then he glances at me again, his smile crooked. 

"Nice glasses."

I flush. "Uh. Thanks. Again."

He waves it off like it's nothing.

Then, because my brain short-circuits under pressure, I open my mouth again.

"Where's the girl?"

Zeal blinks. "Girl?"

"You know... bottle girl."

"...Bottle?"

Before I can explain how insane that sounded, she appears like some chaotic spirit summoned by embarrassment.

Jet.

Cherry Jolt in hand. 

Hoodie sleeves rolled up. 

Violet eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Right here," she says, cracking the cap like she's done it a hundred times.

"There you are, banchou," Zeal rumbles, voice like gravel warming over coals.

"Eat glass, goth boy," she fires back, jabbing him in the ribs. 

Then she turns to me, assessing. "You made a friend?"

"Tessa," I say quickly. "Nice to meet you."

Jet narrows her eyes at me, head tilting. Something sharp in her gaze.

"You look... familiar."

My throat dries. My chest tightens.

She takes a long sip, like she's giving me a moment to stew.

"Forgive me for saying this," she starts, slowly lowering the bottle.

"But you're the drifter, aren't you?"

She cuts me off before I had the chance to lie, waving the bottle at me like a gavel. 

"Relax. I saw you bolt from the Scanners that night. Recognized your face."

Then, with a wink—

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Life's more interesting with secrets anyway."

I turn to Zeal, searching his face for suspicion.

He raises an eyebrow. "I'm no drainrat either. What drifter?"

Jet shrugs like it's old news. "Girl's fast. Real fast. That's all I know."

Zeal narrows his eyes at me—less suspicion, more curiosity. 

"So what brings you to a place like this, anyway? Vacation? Visiting someone?"

I hesitate, then decide on a partial truth.

"Actually...I'm here because I like tech-fighting..."

Jet's eyes go wide. "What? No way." 

She grabs my hands like we've known each other forever, her voice pitching up with excitement. 

"You're a tech-fighter too?!"

I blink.

 "N-no. Not exactly. I just run repairs." 

I gesture to my stall, suddenly self-conscious. 

"I don't fight."

Her hands drop, deflating a little. "Oh. Gotcha."

Before the silence can settle too long, a voice blares over the megaphone, sharp and official:

"Attention all fighters. Please report to the pre-fight check-in zone."

Jet straightens, nerves and excitement flaring back to life.

"That's us," Zeal says, rising with a slow stretch and a click of his neck. He nods toward the corridor. "C'mon, Banchou. Showtime." 

They melt into the crowd, leaving behind the fading echo of their footsteps and the scent of cherry Jolt.

I watch them go, the taste of adrenaline still on my tongue.

She wasn't here to bet.

She was here to fight.

And suddenly, I wasn't sure who the real mystery was—me, or her.

The final repair whirred back to life with a satisfying click.

I sighed in relief and surveyed the now-empty shop. 

Evening spilled in through the grime-streaked windows, casting long shadows across Teppen's underbelly. 

With a shrug, I wiped my hands and slung my bag over my shoulder.

I figured I'd catch a few matches. Couldn't hurt.

But it wasn't just the fights that pulled me in.

Knowing that Jet—the Wanzu Girl, literal billboard royalty—was actually an underground fighter flipped a switch in my brain. 

Why would someone with sponsorship creds and commercial glow risk getting noodled in the pit?

None of my business.

Still. Curiosity itched under my skin and refused to shut up.

The air near the arena buzzed like static in a busted rig. 

Neon flickered overhead, casting everyone in glitchy, uneven light. 

The pre-fight holding zone was a mess of noise, nerves, and neon—Teppen in miniature.

A hulking woman with dermal plating and modded arms adjusted the dials on a massive, salvaged energy hammer—probably used for mining before it got repurposed for skulls. 

Next to her, a wiry teen bounced restlessly, his patchwork rig a mess of scrap blades and blinking lights barely held together with loose screws and bravado.

Then I saw her.

A flicker of black hair. 

That same pair of violet eyes that stared down from half the city's liquor ads.

Jet.

She stood with Zeal near the loading gate, their postures stark opposites. 

She was practically vibrating—

shoulders twitchy, hands working over the straps on a pair of heavily-modded Air Streaming Skates. 

Her rig looked like it had been cannibalized and rebuilt a hundred times—half street salvage, half black-market gloss. 

Zeal, by contrast, stood like a tank. 

Solid. 

Grounded. 

His frame was wrapped in obsidian armor plating, each dent and scratch a quiet threat.

He caught sight of me, and his face lit up.

"Hey, stranger," 

Zeal calls, voice low and casual like he never expects a real answer. 

"Come to see us get wrecked?"

I gave a crooked smile. "You guys look stacked."

My gaze flicked to Jet's skates—sleek and jagged all at once. 

Someone who knew their machines built those.

Before I could ask anything, a voice barked through the chatter:

"Next fighter!"

A tall official with a tired face and worse posture scanned the room, data pad in one hand, disappointment in the other.

Jet squared her shoulders. 

The jitter left her bones like someone flipped a switch.

"Jettra Bosconovitch," 

she announced, voice loud and clear. 

"Akagane District."

She handed over a scuffed ID card—worn edges, faded laminate. Not what you'd expect from a girl who'd sold grape-flavored Wanzu to half the Eastern Block.

"Pit name?" 

the official asked, frowning as the card scanned.

Jet looked at Zeal. Her fingers twitched.

"Like we practiced earlier," Zeal murmured to her. "No real names in the pit."

"We don't do legal tags here, kiddo," the official cut in, clearly over it. 

"Pit name, or no fight."

Zeal doesn't blink. "Banchou."

The official squinted. "That a brand or a gang tag?"

"It's her pit name,'" Zeal says, deadpan.

"She'll live up to it. You got a problem?"

A long pause.

"Whatever," the official muttered, waving it through like secondhand air.

 "And you?"

"Already registered," Zeal said. "Z34L. Pronounced how it looks."

The official scanned their IDs. A battered holo-display shimmered to life.

The official grunted. "Cleared for combat. Prep deck, third corridor. Move."

Jet stepped forward, then turned back to me. That billboard smile flickered to life—half nerves, half adrenaline.

"Wish me luck, stranger."

I gave her two thumbs up.

"Go noodle someone."

Jet smirks, tossing her hoodie over her shoulder like a cape. "That's the plan."