TESSA

It's been a week.

The shield rig doesn't jam anymore. 

My arms don't shake when I take a hit. 

I can block, pivot, counter—sometimes without thinking.

I'm improving. 

Jet calls it progress. 

Zeal calls it luck. 

Ace calls it "barely functional, but less suicidal," which, coming from him, is basically a gold star.

I spend my days splitting time between drills, patching rigs, and running the register at Tori Ichiban—slinging Bad Ideas to night drunks and morning regrets.

Every spare second, Jet's drilling me until my arms beg to quit. 

Every round makes the next hit hurt less—and gives the fear a little more time to stay buried. 

Tomorrow's my first real pit match.

I've fought to survive before—fistfights, scanner runs, bolting from the wrong kind of checkpoints. 

But this is different. 

This time, people will be betting on whether I walk out under my own steam... or get scraped off the floor.

We still needed a fourth member if we're going to stay in the circuit. 

No fourth, no contract.

No contract, no winnings.
No winnings, no hospital fund for Nana.
No upgrades for the rigs.
No Tori Ichiban.
No backup plan.

So today, instead of breathing through my nose and trying not to pass out from nerves, we're out here—wandering the Strip like idiots, trying to find someone desperate enough to join us.

Three hours in, all we've got are sore feet and secondhand embarrassment.

Every halfway-decent fighter's already locked into pit gangs, corpo contracts, or so stimflooded they can't tell a left hook from a power wrench.

One guy tells us he's "the next Kaji Mina."

If Kaji Mina had been bald, twitchy, and dumb enough to sneeze mid-handshake—and short-circuit his own wrist rig.

Zeal pulls me aside before I can even ask the guy's hourly rate.

"We're screwed," he says, deadpan.

I don't argue.

The day started bad. It's trying its hardest to end worse.

The next morning, we cram into the tram station, riding out toward Deadwater Row—the pit they assigned us for the match.

It's all the way in South Kazei. 

No chance we'd make it by foot without collapsing halfway.

The station's a mess of rusted scaffolding and flickering checkpoint gates.

Half of Akagane's bottom-feeders are here, trying to squeeze through the scanners without getting flagged.
A lot of them won't make it.

You need a chip to ride legit.

No chip? You get tossed. 

Dragged out screaming if you're lucky. 

Shot if you're not.

I hang back near the platform, pulse hammering in my throat, trying not to look like easy pickings.
Jet's next to me, hood up, hands stuffed deep in her jacket pockets. 

Calm on the outside, but I catch the tightness in her jaw.

Scanner lights flicker overhead.

Zeal moves first. 

Slides his hand under the reader. 

Beep. 

Green light.

Cleared.

I blink.

Jet does too.

"You got chipped?" she mutters, sharp under her breath.

Zeal shifts, looking uncomfortable.

 "Spectre tag. Bare minimum."  

A pause. 

"Just needed it to move quiet. Didn't mean anything."

He says it low, like he's confessing something worse.

Before I can react, he glances at me—at the way my hands are starting to shake—and steps in.

"You're both on my pass," Zeal says, steady and soft. "You're covered."

I nod stiffly.

When the guard waves us through, I force my feet to move.

One step.

Then another.

Past the checkpoint. Past the scanners. Onto the tram.

The car reeks of burnt plastic, sweat, and old fuel. 

The seats are cracked.

Overhead ads glitch and stutter—half selling off-world visas, half warning us not to even think about it.

We grab a spot by the window.

Outside, another kid tries to bolt the checkpoint.

He doesn't make it.

The tram lurches forward, dragging us deeper into the city's rotting veins.

Deadwater Row used to be a normal industrial stretch of South Kazei's lower blocks—tram routes, sweatshops, rigyards, cargo depots.

Until one flood season, the levees cracked and the river swallowed half the district overnight.

No warning. 

No sirens. 

No rescue.

Buildings collapsed under their own weight. Whole streets dropped into blackwater pits.

The government pulled out after three days.

Declared the zone "unsalvageable." Sealed it off behind scrap walls and left the survivors to rot.

The ones who stayed—because they couldn't afford to leave—built upwards.

They lashed scrap bridges between the leaning towers. 

Stacked shipping crates into new floors.

Welded rooftop shelters onto whatever bones were left standing.

Whole families layered themselves inside the carcasses of drowned factories, climbing higher each year the waterline crept up.

Power lines were rerouted through scavenged junctions.

Water was hauled in buckets or stolen from broken mains.

Markets slithered back into existence—hawking blackwater fish, rig scrap, knockoff meds that might kill you slower than the river would.

The old street grid disappeared under the waterline.

Now, you navigated by whatever still floated—crashed trams, sunken bridges, neon billboards anchored by old tugboats.

They called it Deadwater Row because it sounded better than what it really was.

A graveyard city pretending it still had a pulse.

If it floats, you follow it.

If it sinks, you don't look down.

We pull into Deadwater Row an hour later.

The tram squeals into a stop at the last dry platform before the waterline starts eating the concrete. 

From here, the city breaks apart—buildings leaning into each other like drunk soldiers, roofs lashed with wire and tarps, bridges stitched out of salvage and scrap.

And below it all, black water.

Dark enough that you can't see the bottom.

Thick enough you don't want to try.

We step off the tram and right into it—air so thick it feels like breathing through a wet rag. 

Salt. Rust. Rot. 

A stink like something drowned, clinging to my skin, seeping into my teeth.

A crumpled sign points down a narrow dock.

DEADWATER PITS – 2 clicks.

Problem is, there's no road.

No sidewalks.

Just water.

And scrap barges bobbing between the ruins, rigged with jury-rigged motors, flashing their prices in neon spraypaint:

₸50 TO THE PIT.
₸30 IF YOU DON'T MIND SHOTS.
₸20 IF YOU SWIM.

Zeal whistles low. "Friendly neighborhood shuttle service."

Jet scans the boats, eyes narrowing. "Pick one that looks like it floats."

"Define float," I mutter, already regretting every life choice that led me here.

Zeal smirks, elbowing me lightly. "C'mon, Anchor. If you can't handle a leaky boat, how're you gonna handle the pit?"

I shoot him a look, but my heart's not in it.

Because he's right.

This is just the beginning.

We fish out a few crumpled bills, flag down a barge that's only halfway sinking, and climb aboard.

The boat rocks under our weight. 

The engine sounds like it's about two insults away from detonating.

The driver—a wiry old guy with one eye and a cigarette that's more ash than tobacco—grunts at us to sit.

We do.

The boat sputters into motion, cutting through the blackwater.

Deadwater Row stretches out around us, rising like a broken skeleton from the flood.

"Where to?"

"Coffinbox," Zeal says.

"Coffinbox?" I echo, adjusting my grip on the rail.

The boatman snorts. 

"Yeah. 'Cause once you're in it, either you leave with a win... or in a box."

Jet adds, flat: "First year it opened, twelve fighters went in. Only one walked out."

Zeal nods toward the looming scaffolds. "Fitting name."

I glance out at the pit's silhouette—jagged and waiting—and for a second, I feel the chip behind my ear throb like it's nervous too.

"Scenic route or hotshot run?" the driver asks.

"Scenic," Jet cuts in, no hesitation.

Zeal throws her a look. "Boring."

Jet snorts. "Better to bleed where they're watching. At least then it counts."

The driver hacks up something wet into the water and spits it overboard. "Smart girl. Dead bodies float faster than the boats out here."

I shift on the slick boards, trying not to think too hard about what might be brushing under us. "You always this welcoming?" I mutter.

The driver grins, all gums. Not a tooth in sight. "Only for the ones that look like good tippers."

I glance at the water sloshing against the boat's edge, dark and thick.

Perfect. Just how I wanted to spend my last week alive.

Zeal leans on the rail, squinting at the half-drowned skyline. "You get a lot of fighters through here?"

The driver barks a laugh. "Plenty. Most don't leave richer. Half don't leave at all."

The skiff rattles over the blackwater, engine coughing like it's got pneumonia. 

Every time it shudders, I think we're about to sink.

The wind's heavier out here—thick with salt, smoke, and the stink of something long dead. 

It scrapes across the water, kicking up flecks of oily spray that stick to my jacket.

We pass half-sunken buildings, their upper floors stitched together with rope bridges and rusted catwalks. 

Tarps flap overhead. 

Neon signs buzz in defiance, advertising noodles, gun repairs, and "genuine" IDs. 

Half the letters are missing. All of them feel like lies.

Someone's burning trash on a half-collapsed rooftop. 

The smoke ribbons through the air, catching in my throat.

"Charming place," I mutter, wiping grit from my face.

Jet's crouched near the bow, hood down now, her hair whipping in the wind. 

She looks more alert than usual, watching the skyline like it's about to bite her.

Zeal leans back lazily against the side rail, boots up, acting casual—but I can see the tension in his hands. 

Drumming his fingers. 

Restless.

"You know who we're up against?" I ask, trying to sound steadier than I feel.

Jet doesn't look away from the horizon. "Sungai Sons." 

Zeal huffs. "Great. Local boys. Gonna fight dirty."

Jet hums, checking her rig straps. "Wouldn't expect less."

The boat bobs harder, slamming against something half-submerged. 

Maybe a billboard. 

Maybe a body. 

I try not to think about it. "Could be worse."

Zeal snorts. "Could be the Basura Saints."

Jet smirks. "Basura Saints got scouted up last month, remember? They're not stuck out here anymore."

"Yeah, but their old roster still hangs around Deadwater pits," Zeal mutters. 

"Some cousin or second-stringer itching for a blood bonus."

"Basura," I repeat under my breath. Trash. Saints. It fits the place too well.

Jet catches my look and shrugs. "Don't laugh. Those 'trash' rigs? Half of them are ex-military salvage. Rusty, yeah. But they'll fold you up if you're stupid."

Zeal taps his temple. "Deadwater teams don't fight pretty. They fight permanent."

"So.. who's gonna try and kill me first?"

"Marro. Captain of the Sungai Sons. Big guy. Got a crane-arm mod stitched onto his spine. Loves slow kills. Crowd loves it even more."

Jet leans back on her heels, eyes slitting against the wind. "If he gets a hold of you, it's over."

"Fast ones are Tico and Sanka," Zeal adds. 

"Tico's the ankle-biter. Tries to trip you, drag you low. Sanka's slippery. Likes cheap shots. The kind that'll get a laugh outta the locals."

"And the fourth?" I ask, bracing my hand on the gunwale as the boat bucks.

"Kel," Jet says flatly. "Built like a concrete wall. Hits like one, too."

Zeal grins. "Good news is, he's got the IQ to match."

The boat angles hard to the left, skimming between two leaning towers stitched together with ropes and shipping crate walkways. 

Water slaps up against the hull, oily and thick.

A kid on one of the overhead bridges throws something at us—could be a rotten fish. 

It splats against the water uselessly.

The driver chuckles like it's the best entertainment he's had all week.

"You got fans already."

"Deadwater loves a funeral," Jet mutters.

Up ahead, the mist thins just enough for a glimpse—a stitched-together hellhole of collapsed tramcars and gangplank scaffolds, all ringed in jury-rigged floodlights buzzing like angry wasps.

The Coffinbox.

It hunches over the blackwater like a broken ribcage, waiting to snap shut.

A low, droning hum vibrates the air above it.

I look up—and catch it.

A drone.

Not a Deadwater scavenge-job either. 

Clean casing. 

High-altitude stabilizers. 

Sharp lines. 

Corporate-grade optics.

It's hanging there, silent and sharp-eyed, scanning the pit like it's window shopping.

I nudge Jet with my elbow. "Heads up."

She glances up once, frowns.

Zeal follows our gaze. "That's not local."

"Nope," I mutter.

No pit rat's running a rig that clean. Which meant someone else was watching.

Someone who probably had bigger plans than the ₸200 pot.

The boat scrapes against the Coffinbox dock with a hollow thud.

The driver ties us off, spitting over the side. 

"Last stop, sweethearts. Try not to die too fast."

Jet slings her shield rig over one shoulder, gaze cool and steady.

"We're the ones doing the burying today," she says.

I follow her up the gangplank, boots thudding against wet wood, feeling the pit's gravity pull at my spine.

Zeal lags half a step behind, muttering under his breath.

"Deadwater Row, man. Always smells like a festering wound."

I don't disagree.

Above us, the drone hums louder.

Watching.

Waiting.

And somewhere not too far away, someone else is watching too.