The table looks like a battlefield. 

Wire guts, solder burns, cracked casings, five cans of Jolt. 

I've been at it for hours—knees aching, fingers stained, sleeves rolled to my elbows and sweat trailing down my spine like a threat.

But the shield's almost there.

I kneel over the rig, heart hammering like it's trying to match the pulse of the capacitor in my hand.

The others linger nearby. 

Watching, but not hovering.

Jet stands leaned against a rusted shelf, arms crossed, unreadable. 

Zeal lounges on an overturned crate, sipping a Spud Light that looks like it's been inside the fridge for years.

And Ace? He's off to the side. 

Arms folded. Silent. 

Watching with the kind of patience that's scarier than hostility. Like he's measuring me.

I murmur under my breath, "Shield coil's still throwing feedback. If I route it through the second capacitor... maybe..."

Another adjustment. 

One more wire twist. 

A flick of the switch.

Click. Hum.

I exhale. "Okay. Try now."

Jet steps forward and grabs the rig's arm.

She flicks it forward—WHRRRRRRRRSHHH.

A hex-shield flares to life from my forearm rig. 

Not perfect. 

It buzzes at the edges. 

But it holds.

Zeal lets out a low whistle. "Holy shit. It works."

Jet squints at the projection. "Still ugly, but functional."

"Thanks," I say dryly, pushing my bangs back. "Exactly what I was going for."

I stand, brushing metal dust off my pants. 

The spine brace hisses into place, locking with a sharp click. 

My shoulders roll under the mesh like a second breath. For the first time, I feel... braced.

I turn toward Zeal. "Alright. Hit me."

He blinks. "What?"

I hold out my shield arm. "Let's see if the rail can handle a direct impact."

Jet raises an eyebrow. "Your funeral."

Zeal glances at Ace, who just shrugs like not my problem.

He stands, cracks his neck, and steps in. "Whatever. Your call."

He throws a punch—solid, sharp—straight into my shoulder.

WHOMP.

The sound is dense. 

Ugly. 

But I barely move. 

The rig takes it. 

The shield takes it. 

The pulse hums down my back like thunder riding the bones.

Zeal takes a step back, blinking.

"Okay" he mutters, eyebrows up. 

"That's kinda hot."

"KAF frame's responding," Ace mutters behind me. 

"Manual valve did the trick."

I nod, flexing my hand. 

"Stored it. Didn't dump."

Jet leans forward. "Can you release it?"

"Let's find out," I say, shifting my stance.

I spin, plant my boot, and slam the rigged arm into the floor.

BOOM.

A shockwave bursts out from my palm, rattling the floor and knocking a stack of crates into the wall with a crash.

Everyone flinches.

Zeal coughs, brushing dust off his shirt. 

"I think I just saw the sun god."

"Sorry about the mess," I mutter, straightening.

Ace walks forward. 

He picks up a loose bolt, rolls it between his fingers, then looks at me.

"You rewired a riot rig into a wearable concussion battery," he says.

"It's not perfect," I reply. 

"Back plating's weak. Neural sync's still jittery."

"You're small for a tank," he observes.

"That's the point," I say. 

"Nobody sees it coming."

Jet grins, sharp. "She's bait."

"With teeth," Zeal adds, smirking.

Jet crosses the room, running a hand over the shoulder plate. 

"We tune this right, give her a few weeks of pit sim, maybe swap the mesh—"

"She'll hold," Ace says.

We all stop.

Not might.

She'll.

"She'll take the hits," Ace continues calmly. 

"Zeal covers flank. Jet handles pressure and callouts. That leaves the fourth."

Stillness settles between us.

I glance down at the rig.

 "Still need a name."

"For the rig or the squad?" 

Jet asks.

"Both," I say.

Zeal reaches into a box of spare parts, pulls out a sticker, slaps it onto the rig's shoulder plate, and scribbles across it with a blunt marker.

CLOSE ON TAG:
ANCHOR

Zeal pats the shoulder. "Welcome to the team, Anchor."

Jet flashes a rare grin. "Not bad."

Ace grunts approvingly. "Let's hope you're harder to sink than you look."

I run my hand over the sticker.

It's cheap. 

Already peeling at the edges. 

But somehow, it feels heavier than the rig itself.

Anchor.

I close the last panel, snap the rig seals shut, and sling it onto my back. 

The straps bite into my shoulders. 

The weight is real now.

Ace leans against the doorway, arms crossed. 

"Don't get too cozy. Match isn't for another week."

I glance up. "A week?"

"Deadwater Row's booked solid. We're slotted in next Friday."

Jet nods. "Gives us time to train. Tighten the rig. Scout the pit."

Zeal smirks. "And maybe find a fourth member."

I exhale, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. 

A week.

Seven days to prepare. 

Seven days to prove I belong.

I adjust the rig on my back, the weight a constant reminder.

Deadwater Row won't give us a second chance.

Neither will I.