And the predators below are comin’ for me.
They’re climbin’. Hand over hand, claw over claw, swarmin’ up the metal beams like ants after meat. Half of them aren’t even whole—missin’ eyes, draggin’ limbs, sparks sputterin’ from half-dead augments. One lets out a shriek as it slips, falls, and another one climbs right over its body like it didn’t even happen.
I brace, breath caught in my throat—then stop.
Wait.
I look past the ones comin’ now.
The arena floor below isn’t packed anymore.
It used to be a tide. A sea.
But now… there’s a darkness down there. Emptiness.
How many of them have I already killed?
And why am I still standin’?
I blink, hard. My fingers twitch against the rail as I picture the augmentation room. And then, a memory…
I am fourteen.
The bright lights above me.
The straps, tight around my body.
Skin buzzin’ like static electricity before a sand storm.
I am strong, and willin’, and ready.
I am not afraid.
I’m not.
And I wasn’t. Not then. I didn’t understand enough about what was happenin’ to be properly afraid. Nanothreads, replicate body systems, data displays—they were justwordsto me back then.
Today, they’re consequences.
Not enough.
The mutant to reach me first is a fast climber with long limbs, spindly fingers, and no eyes—just a slick metal plate where the eyes should be, etched with a glowin’ blood-red triangle. It hisses when it sees me. Not a scream. Just a hiss, like it’s breathing outrage. Then it lunges, shoulder first, shoving through the cage bars like they aren’t even there.
I twist, catch it mid-leap, and slam it into the railin’ with a grunt, making the whole cage shudder. Bone cracks. My knuckles tear open. But this thing doesn’t care. It keeps writhin’, bitin’, clawin’.
It’s never gonna stop.
Not until I make it stop.
Fingers twitchin’, I turn it around, shove it into the cage bar, snap its neck, and throw it over the side—taking out three mutants as they climb up.
Then I spin—too late—to face the one that just came up behind me.
This one’s big. No armor, just skin stretched tight over metal bones. Its jaw hangs wide open. Too wide, like it was taken apart and never quite put back together. There’s no spark in its eyes. Just hunger. Rage. Programming.
It strikes—and everythin’ that comes next is just instinct.
Seventeen years of killin’, and death, and loss, and lessons.
