Zayne woke to silence. No alarms. No dripping pipes. No morning sun—just the steady blink of blue light on the nightstand.
The headset.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to hold on to the warmth from last night—the noodles, the laughter, Nia's kiss that still lingered like static under his skin. The city outside was half-awake: sirens in the distance, air recyclers humming.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't hate the quiet.
He sat up slowly, stretching sore shoulders. The shirt Nia bought hung loose but clean. The smell of her perfume still clung faintly to the fabric.
He should've felt grounded.Instead, he felt empty.
The hum of the headset filled the apartment like a heartbeat he couldn't escape.
His phone buzzed.
VOID FIST / SYSTEM ALERT
Next match available.
Accept to continue rank progression.
Refuse to forfeit pending credits.
Penalty: Account Suspension.
The message pulsed in red.
ACCEPT / REJECT.
He stared at it.
'Two thousand credits. Maybe more.'
'Rent.'
'Groceries.'
'Freedom.'
His thumb twitched.
Then another buzz—
NIA:Good morning, rookie. Survive breakfast without the headset?
He almost laughed. Typed: Barely. Deleted it.
Typed again: Thanks for last night. Deleted that too.
He tossed the phone aside. Sat on the edge of the mattress. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the absence of the adrenaline that had started to feel like oxygen.
He whispered, "Just checking the system." Lie number one.
The visor sealed over his face. The world inverted.
Cold air. Metal floors. Red lights flickering like heartbeats.
No crowd this time. Just the hum of generators and a voice smooth as oil:
"Welcome back, Zayne Ward. Rank progression pending."
Panels lit up around him, forming a platform grid suspended over a bottomless void. A holographic interface unfolded before him.
TRAINING SIM: CROWBAR FOLLOW-UP — ADAPTIVE COMBAT MODE.
Zayne frowned. "Crowbar's dead."
"Correct. But you are not."
Metal footsteps echoed. A figure stepped out of the dark—a wireframe ghost of his last opponent, Crowbar rebuilt from data.
A test.
He clenched his fists. "Fine. Let's see if I actually learned something."
The simulation lunged.
This time, he didn't flinch. He ducked under the swing, countered with a cross, pivoted, dropped weight—perfect form. Impact connected, the hologram flickered.
"Form improvement: 12 percent."
"Only twelve?"
"Perfection requires repetition."
"Yeah, yeah."
They fought again. Faster. Tighter. The system adapted each time, pushing his reactions until pain became rhythm. His breath synced with the pulse of the floor.
Minutes bled together.
Then the platform split.
Red lines cracked through the ground; new panels rose and fell, shifting terrain like tectonic plates.
Zayne stumbled, caught himself. "Oh, come on—"
"Adaptive Mode Level Two initiated."
Crowbar's phantom charged again, moving twice as fast. The blows came from impossible angles, forcing him to block with instinct alone. Sparks flared where fist met metal air.
Every impact felt real. Too real.
Zayne's heart pounded. "You're— you're hitting harder than last time."
"Calibration adjusted to match biometric growth."
"What does that mean?"
"You asked to improve."
The next punch drove him to one knee.
Blood slicked his lip; real pain seared through virtual ribs. He gasped, teeth gritted. "Still just a simulation."
"Pain is the only metric that never lies."
Zayne roared and swung back, catching the phantom across the jaw. It shattered into static.
He stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by flickering panels.
SESSION COMPLETE.
REWARD: +1,500 CREDITS.
NEW RECORD: REACTION THRESHOLD 142%.
The words hung in the air like judgment.
The floor dissolved beneath him. For a heartbeat, there was only free-fall and static.
Then another voice—different. Distorted. Almost human.
"Keep climbing, Ward. They're watching."
Zayne spun. "Who said that?"
No response. The system rebooted, re-forming the empty grid.
"Unexpected interference. User should disconnect."
He yanked the headset off, gasping. The apartment snapped back around him—peeling wallpaper, a half-empty water bottle, sunlight through dust.
He checked the headset. It was still glowing faint blue.
He wasn't sure if the voice had been real or another test.
He staggered to the sink, splashed water on his face. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked unfamiliar—pupils dilated, veins raised under skin that pulsed faintly blue.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I'm glowing."
The phone buzzed again.
NIA:Don't tell me you're in there already.
Zayne stared at it, jaw tight. Typed back: Just training.The message showed "Read." No reply.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. His hands still shook.
The credits hit his account a moment later—clean, digital, perfect.He should've felt proud. Stronger. Richer.Instead, he just felt hungry again.
The headset blinked once on the bed.
He whispered to no one, "Just one more."
The light pulsed brighter, as if it agreed.
Outside, the city screamed with traffic and sirens, alive in ways his room wasn't. Zayne leaned on the window frame, watching people move like data streams—each face another fighter, another ghost.
He wondered how many of them were already inside the Void, chasing the same illusion.
A knock echoed from the door.
He froze.
Another knock—sharper this time.
"Zayne," came Nia's voice, muffled but unmistakable. "Open up."
He looked from the door to the headset, then back again.
For the first time, he didn't know which one scared him more.
The pounding wouldn't stop.Three knocks. A pause. Three more.
Zayne dragged himself up from the mattress, heart still drumming from the sim. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you."
When he opened the door, Nia was already halfway through the frame. Her hair was pulled back, blazer on, eyes blazing.
"You've got to be kidding me." She shoved the door the rest of the way open. "You were in again, weren't you?"
Zayne blinked, still half-wired. "Morning to you too."
"Don't play cute." She spotted the headset glowing on the bed. "How long?"
"Hour. Maybe two."
"Try four." She held up her tablet; his biometric feed was still active, heartbeat spiking red across the display. "Do you even hear yourself breathing in there?"
"It's training," he snapped. "You want me ready for the next match, right? The sim helps."
Nia's jaw tightened. "No. It feeds you."
He stepped closer. "You think I can get better sitting around reading your little book club picks?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You think slamming your brain into a feedback loop makes you a fighter?" She crossed the room, grabbed the headset, and held it up between them. "This isn't training, Zayne. It's control."
He bristled, voice low. "It's working."
"Yeah?" She dropped the headset onto the table with a clatter. "Then why are you shaking?"
Zayne glanced at his hands—tremors running through the knuckles he hadn't noticed. He flexed them hard, forcing the tremor to still. "Doesn't matter. The headset gets me ready."
Nia exhaled sharply, pacing once before turning back on him. "If you want to train, there's a place for that. The real Void Fist training center. People who can actually hit back. Fighters who still know where they end and the system begins."
That made him pause. "Training center?"
"You think everything happens in a headset?" She grabbed his duffel from the floor, started stuffing gloves and wraps inside. "There's a facility downtown. They condition rookies between fights, keep them alive long enough to reach Tier Two. If you want to act like one of them—act like it."
He tried to hold her wrist. "Nia—"
Her eyes flicked up, ice-cold, all business. The woman from the date was gone. "Get your shoes, Ward."
"Nia, you don't have to—"
"Now."
He hesitated. She met his stare head-on until he looked away, then she shouldered the bag and tossed it at his chest.
"If you want to fight so bad, then fight somewhere real."
They didn't speak much in the car.Nia drove like she did everything—efficient, precise, knuckles white on the wheel. Zayne watched the city slide past: rain-slick streets, endless holographic ads flashing VOID FIST APPAREL, FIGHT STREAMS LIVE, STAY IN THE RING.
He finally muttered, "You're acting like last night didn't happen."
Her gaze stayed on the road. "Because it doesn't change what's happening now."
"That easy for you?"
"Easier than watching you fry your brain for fake punches."
He laughed once, bitter. "Guess I deserve that."
She didn't answer.
The car stopped in front of a black-glass building covered in glowing white sigils. Inside, the air buzzed with motion sensors and the smell of metal polish. Fighters shadowboxed in digital cages, trainers barked cadence over the hum of machinery.
Zayne's eyes widened. "This is—"
"The real thing." Nia's tone softened only slightly. "Every serious Void fighter trains here between matches. Physical conditioning, neural mapping, tactical analysis. No filters. No illusions."
A security gate scanned them as they stepped inside. The floor lit up under Nia's shoes.
"New recruit, Ward Zayne," she told the attendant. "Unranked, pending Tier One evaluation."
Zayne muttered, "You didn't have to pull strings."
"Didn't. You earned this. You just forgot how."
She turned to him, the edge of her voice cutting through the din. "Listen. Inside here, you're not special. They'll test your stance, your reaction time, and your pain tolerance. And you will bleed. But at least it'll be real."
Zayne swallowed. "And if I don't pass?"
"Then maybe you'll finally understand the difference between surviving and performing."
She started walking toward the elevators.
He watched her stride away—heels sharp, posture perfect, a professional wall where warmth used to be.
The kiss from last night felt like a dream already fading.
He gripped the strap of his bag, looked around at the fighters hammering drills under flickering lights, and forced a slow breath.
"Real training," he muttered. "Fine."
Behind her, Nia didn't look back.