I stayed standing a little too long after they left, hands in my jacket pockets, trying to ignore the way my pulse still thudded behind my ears. 

The noise of the pit had grown behind the corridor—cheers, the stomp of boots, the static squawk of announcer voices already crackling to life overhead.

I found an open perch above the arena, tucked between two broken monitors and a guy asleep with his hand still in a popcorn bag. 

Lights flared.

Names pulsed onto the cracked jumbotron:
Z34L + BANCHOU (0-0) 
vs
B.A.D. COMPANY (2-0)

The underground arena isn't much more than a rebar skeleton wrapped in LED strips and reinforced steel. But under this light—hazy, red, half-functioning—it looks like something sacred. 

A coliseum built on rust and rage.

The pit thrums like a living thing. 

Steam vents hiss beneath the grated floor. 

Chains clatter above in the rafters, where fans lean dangerously over railings, eyes sharp with bloodlust and Qin wagers.

And at the center of it all: the ring.

The announcer's voice blasts through the PA like it's been chewed up and spat out by a warbot.

"WELCOME TO MIDNIGHT MATCH. No rules. No resets. You get knocked, you get docked. You tap, you walk. You break the rig—"

"—you buy it," 

the crowd chants, already frothing.

The gates slide open.

Jet enters first—no, Banchou does. 

The shift is almost supernatural. 

Gone is the billboard girl with a soft neon glow. 

What walks into the ring now is all jagged breath and cracked knuckles.

Her skates clink softly on the steel floor. Her rig's patched with raw welds and vinyl—half street, half metal. 

Her visor locks down. 

Violet eyes shimmer to black–the only body part that was visible. 

Behind her, Zeal enters like a weapon already loaded. 

His rig hums with kinetic plates and back-boosters. 

Obsidian armor gleams beneath arena floodlights. 

He doesn't wave. 

Doesn't nod. 

Just steps into his square like he was born there.

"On the left," the announcer howls, "your local leg-breakers—rookies with teeth: Banchou and Zeal!"

Cheers explode from the bleachers.

Then the right gate hisses open.

Two figures glide in. 

One, a towering brute with exo-limbs reinforced with hydro-pistons, each footstep like a hammer falling. 

The other, wiry, twitchy—spinning twin-blades on his forearms like toys.

"Facing them tonight, all the way from Veriton Black Zone, the reigning pit lords of Sector Nine—B.A.D. COMPANY!"

Boos mix with awe. 

People know these names. 

They've ended matches with bone and blood.

The ref—if you can even call him that—doesn't wait.

"Engage in 3—2—1—"

The world drops out.

Jet launches. 

Like a bullet off a rail. 

She's fast—too fast for someone still technically 0-0.  

Her skates roar to life, anti-grav modules kicking up sparks as she spins mid-air and lands a wheel to Blade Guy's jaw before he can blink. 

The crowd roars.

Zeal doesn't bother with flash.

 He moves like a fortress—one fist up to block a haymaker from the brute, then twists, grabs the guy's arm, and flips him. Yes, flips. 

The entire pit shakes.

Jet ricochets off a wall, uses it to springboard, comes down blade-first on Blade Guy's rig casing. 

The sparks dance like stars.

"BANCHOU'S GOT BITE!" the announcer screams.

"DIDN'T KNOW THE RED RIDING HOOD COULD WRESTLE WITH THE WOLVES!"

Zeal eats a plasma hit to the shoulder and doesn't flinch. 

He rotates, slams his hammer-fist into the brute's chest, denting the rig so hard alarms scream. 

Smoke belches out the vents.

Banchou skates backward, wiping blood from her lip.

Zeal: "You good?

Jet: "Solid."

She skids low, baseball-slide-style, between Blade Guy's legs and slices his thigh servo in half with a pulse blade.

The guy drops. Howling. Twitching.

"B.A.D. COMPANY'S DOWN ONE—WHAT A HIT FROM BANCHOU! THIS NEWBIE'S GOT NO CHILL!"

The brute charges Zeal like a freight train.

Zeal smiles.

Then he sidesteps.

The brute barrels straight into a grounded Tesla coil, lights flash—and the whole arena smells like scorched metal.

Match over.

Silence.

Then: a scream of approval.

Jet's panting. Zeal lifts his arm.

And just like that—

Legends are born.

The pit stinks of smoke and overclocked rigs.

It's quieter now—just the hiss of pressure valves cooling down, the distant clang of a busted exo-leg getting reattached in the repair bay, the low murmur of breathless awe that always follows a good match. 

Jet and Zeal absolutely killed it out there. 

Crowd was feral. 

Bets paid out. 

No limbs lost. 

A win by Teppen standards.

I'm leaning against a concrete pillar, sipping lukewarm Jolt and watching them towel off near the lockers.

Jet's hair is damp, sticking to her temple. 

Her voice carries even when she's whispering. 

Zeal looks like a statue draped in sweat and triumph. 

They talk like they've done this a hundred times.

Jet catches me watching. 

Flicks her chin up.

"You stay for the fight?" she asks, voice still riding high on adrenaline.

"Yeah," I say. "You were—uh. Kinda terrifying."

Jet grins. "Good. I aim to traumatize."

Zeal tosses her a bottle of water. 

She cracks it open, downs half.

There's a beat.

Then I clear my throat. 

"Hey. Can I ask you something?"

Jet arches a brow, already suspicious. 

"You just did."

I roll my eyes. "Serious question."

"Shoot."

"The Wanzu ads," I say. "The billboards. That's you, right?"

She doesn't answer right away. Just exhales through her nose. "Yeah. That was me."

"But... how?" I ask, quieter now. "You're in bottles. Commercials. You've got, like, global ad reach. What are you doing here?"

She sets the water down.

"I sold my face," she says. 

"Literally. Couple years ago. Some sketchy agency offered me a few thousand creds to scan my face and license it. Said they'd use it for background actors or minor campaigns. Next thing I know, I'm hawking grape-flavored liquor to half the slums."

"Why?"

She pauses. Then answers without looking at me.

"Because Nana needed meds. And the lights were gonna get cut. And selling chicken wasn't enough to buy her a new liver."

Zeal shifts, gaze softening. Doesn't interrupt.

Jet grips her bottle tighter.

"They used my face. Not my voice. Not my name. Didn't even need me to show up. Just a scan and a signature. Wasn't enough to live on, but it kept Nana warm through winter. That's all that mattered."

"And your brother? He doesn't know?"

"If my brother finds out, he'll fly back and drag me to school by my ponytail," she mutters. "So no. He doesn't know. He thinks I'm still in school."

She looks at me now. Full violet eyes, fierce and unwavering.

"I'm not ashamed," Jet says, chin tilted. "I'm pissed. I do the bleeding, and they crop me into a label like I'm some collectible sticker pack."

She kicks the locker. 

Not hard. 

Just enough to feel it.

"I'm not gonna rot behind a counter waiting for some miracle to fix things. I'm gonna win. Transfer Nana to a better hospital. Get out of the slums. Maybe even buy my damn face back someday."

I don't say anything.

Because what do you say to a girl who's just fighting to survive?

Zeal smirks. "She's also in it for the noodles."

Jet flips him off lazily. "Keep talkin' and I'll deduct your share."

And just like that, the tension breaks.

They laugh. I join in, a little late.

The clang of the arena gates echoes in the pit as the cleanup crew starts moving in. 

Zeal stretched one shoulder, wincing as something popped. 

"So," he says, voice already back to neutral, like they hadn't just body-slammed the reigning champs of Sector Nine, "you realize we gotta walk."

Jet blinks. "...Walk where?"

"Aka. Gane," he says flatly, drawing out the syllables like a death sentence.

Jet groans. "Shit. It's a four hour walk."

Zeal deadpans, "Three if you don't fake a limp again."

Jet kicks him lightly. "I was sore, jackass."

Zeal doesn't flinch. "You're only sore when you want a piggyback ride."

Jet smirks. "I will bite."

Zeal shrugs. "So long as you aim high."

They both turn toward me, not quite saying it, but definitely hoping.

I raise my hands. "I don't have my own place. Drifter, remember?"

"Figured."

"But," I add, slipping my bag over one shoulder, 

"I can ask Sharq and Spud if they've got any rooms upstairs still unlocked. Sometimes the night fighters rent 'em. Real grimy. One bulb. One cot. No heat."

Zeal spreads his arms like he's accepting an Oscar. "Perfect. We'll take it."

Jet grins at me. "You're my hero."

I find Sharq behind the counter, sipping some sort of broth and judging the taste. 

Spud's passed out in the back, face down in a pile of skewer sticks. 

I explain the situation.

Sharq just stares at me, then shrugs.

"Third floor. Room 2B. Don't break the window. Don't kill each other."

"Thanks," I say.

He lifts his bowl in salute, then goes back to stirring whatever broth he was making. 

Upstairs, the stairwell smells like mildew. Jet's laughing at something Zeal said, trailing her fingers along the graffiti-lined walls.

The room isn't much. One cot. One sink. One window with a view of a rusted billboard.

But it's warm. And it's enough.