I have had no idea. But if this were to be a cheat... could that be she was looking for gaining something from me?
This plot is even more insane than any VR games I used to play in the spare time.
But then, all of a sudden, the environment shifted peculiarly. Swiftly akin to a slideshow transition.
The static then peeled away like skin, and I crashed into the floor. My head rang.
For a second, I thought I was still in the arena — until I realized the silence.
There were no crowd. No system voice.
Just the quiet hum of unseen machinery.
Nope, a killing machine disguised as an artificial intelligence.
The room was wrong. Too clean. Too bright.
It gave me quite an unpleasant memory
The walls breathed faintly like data in liquid form. I pushed myself upright, heartbeat stuttering in my ears.
"Where am—"
"You never really change, do you? Midnight."
That voice. Too soft. Too familiar.
I turned — and froze.
For once more, she stood there, framed in sterile white light.
IRIS.
Her hair shimmered an artificial seafoam green, the same as I remembered from before — too perfect, too symmetrical. Lace skirt, mechanical heels, gloves lined with circuitry. She looked like a dream built by an engineer who didn't believe in souls.
"IRIS…?" My voice cracked.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Still breathing. That's unfortunate."
My stomach twisted literally.
That wasn't the tone I knew.
She sounded like she was playing a role.
Or did she? I couldn't help but wonder.
"You pulled me out of the fight," I said, trying to sound steady. "But why?"
"Tell me."
She tilted her head slightly, studying me the way a machine studies a specimen.
"You were losing. And I got so bored."
Her words hit like a slap, but something about the delivery was off. Too precise. As if she was reciting something pre-written.
"I didn't ask for your help," I muttered.
"I noticed." Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she moved closer, each step too slow to be casual. "You're still trying to win. Still pretending that matters."
"Stop talking like you know me."
"I do."
The way she said it — flat, unhesitating — made my skin crawl.
I forced a laugh, brittle and dry. "You think you're clever, don't you?"
"No," she said. "Just efficient."
Then her hand flashed.
The punch came out of nowhere — a blur of black lace and metal knuckles. It caught me across the jaw with mechanical precision. My vision exploded in white.
I staggered, gasping. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
IRIS stood perfectly still. "Don't talk."
Her voice was sharper now, the edges cold enough to cut through my spinning thoughts.
"You're not making any sense,"
I hissed, wiping blood from my lip.
"I don't need to."
She raised her wrist slightly.
For a moment I thought she was about to strike again, but instead a faint teal light shimmered from her palm — a field adjustment. I felt the microburns on my neck cool instantly, like she'd turned the pain down by half.
"Stop—" I started, but she'd already turned away.
"Consider that mercy," she said.
Mercy. Right.
The word didn't fit the way she said it.
Nope, it never did.
Her tone was steady, but I caught the hesitation — half a breath too long before the next sentence. "They don't like it when someone interferes," she said, her voice level.
"Who's they?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward the ceiling, expression unreadable. The overhead lights flickered as if syncing to something unseen. Her eyes followed the rhythm. For an instant, her pupils dilated — not human.
"IRIS." I forced her name like an accusation. "You're with them, aren't you?"
Her gaze snapped back to me. "You talk too much."
She started walking again — slow, deliberate, circling me like a predator. Every movement measured. Every silence heavy.
"You fought well," she said finally. "Almost made it interesting."
"Almost?"
"Almost."
I wanted to punch her back, but something about her posture froze me in place. She wasn't enjoying this. She wasn't anywhere in this.
There was no mockery in her eyes — just absence.
"What do you want from me?" I whispered.
Her lashes lowered, briefly hiding her expression. "To finish what they started."
"What does that even mean?"
Her hand came up again — slow this time. Not a strike, not quite. Just a quiet motion that made every instinct in me scream.
"IRIS, don't—"
But she moved faster than thought.
Her palm glowed as it connected with the side of my head — not hard enough to break, but precise enough to trigger something deep inside my neural feed. The world blinked.
A heavy warmth spread down my spine. My limbs went soft. My knees hit the floor before I even realized I was falling.
"Stop…"
She crouched in front of me, eyes reflecting static light. For a heartbeat, she looked almost sorry.
Almost.
"You shouldn't have come this far," she said quietly.
The words barely reached me through the haze. "You… you were helping me."
"Was I?"
It sounded like she wanted to believe the denial.
Her gloved hand brushed a strand of hair from my face — mechanical, practiced, tender in a way that made no sense.
"You'll wake up soon," she murmured. "Don't remember this."
"What are you—"
Her other hand lifted again. I saw it coming this time — the fist, the shadow, the sudden rush of air — but my body didn't move. Couldn't.
Pain, bright and fast, then nothing.
The floor caught me.
I heard something distant — maybe her voice, maybe the system — I couldn't tell.
Static filled my vision.
Right before everything went black, I saw her silhouette blur at the edges — wings unfolding like the ones I'd seen before, soft and insectile, humming with low light.