Valtron’s already there.
The training ring is empty but for him, the lights low and moody. The smell of oil and sweat clings to the air, thick and metallic. Machines hum around the edges—sparring dummies, weight rigs, resistance grids all silent for now.
He’s pacing.
Shirtless.
Gloved.
His red scales catch the light like hot coals.
When I step into the ring, he stops.
His gaze snaps to me like a targeting lock.
The crew starts rolling.
I press my earpiece. “No audio feed. Visuals only.”
They protest.
I don’t care.
They won’t hearthis.
“Training rituals, huh?” I say, voice dry as dust. “What’s next? Blastaar’s favorite smoothie recipe?”
He doesn’t laugh.
Doesn’t move.
Just watches.
I circle the ring, keeping distance, filming hands steady even though mine aren’t.
“You set this up?” I ask. “You pull strings?”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t have to.”
Of course not.
The network’s doing the heavy lifting. They want sparks.
They’re gonna get fire.
I lift the camera. Focus in on his face.
And that’s when he says it.
Soft.
Deadly.
Like a blade slipped between ribs.
“Is she mine? The child I saw you with?”
The world stops.
