The door slid shut behind him with a low hiss, and Ronin stepped back into the winner's room.
It still stank of blood, sweat, and something worse—tension. Not just the nervous kind, but the metallic smell of anticipation from fighters who were either desperate to win or dreading their turn.
But Ronin wasn't thinking about any of that.
He stared ahead, eyes unfocused, steps slow, every footfall echoing as if the room were emptier than it was. The taste of adrenaline still lingered at the back of his throat. His knuckles were scabbed and dry with flakes of blood. Not his.
Why didn't he stop?
Why did he enjoy it?
A voice cut into his fog.
"Damn," Oren said, walking up to him. "I knew you were tough, but that was something else. That guy was—well, he's not going to walk straight for a month."
No response.
Ronin blinked, finally realizing someone was talking to him.
Oren raised an eyebrow. "You good, man?"
Ronin inhaled through his nose, like it might shake loose whatever fog had wrapped around his brain. "Yeah… Yeah. I'm good."
He wasn't. But lying was easier than explaining whatever the hell was happening in his head.
They walked back toward the corner where Aurelia stood. She looked pale—tired, sure—but composed again. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, and she was watching the screen intently, ignoring the tension between the guys beside her.
Match after match rolled on, the screen flashing names and footage in bursts of violence. Ronin barely registered any of it. He stared without watching. His own match replayed on loop inside his skull—every crunch, every blood spray, every time Bran's head bounced off his knee like a doll.
Then:
"Aurelia Voss. Brock Ceran."
Brock stood up like a goddamn movie villain.
"Finally."
His voice filled the room. Not because he yelled—he didn't have to. He was one of those people who just sounded like he belonged in control. Loud. Confident. Cruel.
Aurelia took a slow breath and stepped forward.
"Hey," Oren said quickly, reaching out.
She turned halfway.
"Don't push yourself," he said. "If he's too strong—just give up. Seriously. Don't be stupid."
Her eyes narrowed into a venomous glare.
Oren instantly raised his hands in surrender. "Okay! Shutting up. Go break his nose."
She didn't answer.
Just walked out.
Ronin turned his eyes toward the screen as the camera feed lit up.
The stadium. The blinding lights. Brock and Aurelia walking to the platform.
Ronin watched. Oren didn't blink.
The announcer's voice echoed across the speakers.
"Match start!"
Aurelia's arms lifted. She was charging something—maybe a barrier, maybe an attack—but it was too slow.
Brock didn't wait.
He was already in motion.
Laughing.
The crowd exploded in cheers and jeers as his massive fist collided with Aurelia's side with a sickening, wet crunch.
She flew.
She screamed.
Her body slammed into the stone platform with enough force to crack it. The sound of her landing made Oren flinch like he'd been punched himself.
Aurelia didn't move.
Oren's face drained of color.
He stepped forward. "End the match!" he yelled, looking to the two officials standing by the door. "She's done! She can't keep fighting!"
They glanced at each other. One shifted his eyes away. The other didn't even bother.
"Are you serious right now?" Oren barked. "She's on the ground! One fucking hit!"
On screen, Brock walked over to her fallen body. The camera zoomed in just enough to catch his grin as he kicked her again—a brutal punt that lifted her small frame like a rag doll.
This time, she didn't even scream.
Only a thud as she hit the stone again.
Oren was already halfway to the door before two staffers stepped in front of him, hands up. "Sir, please—"
"MOVE."
"She hasn't conceded," one of them said weakly.
"She's unconscious, you piece of shit!"
In the back of the room, Rizzo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, chewing something.
"This match sucks," he muttered.
No pity. Just boredom.
Ronin turned sharply at that, ready to bark at him—but then… he didn't.
Because Rizzo wasn't wrong.
It did suck.
And worse than that—Ronin realized he agreed.
Not just with the words.
With the feeling.
He wasn't worried about Aurelia. He wasn't angry.
He was just… disappointed.
Disappointed in her weakness. Disappointed she didn't last longer. Disappointed she made such a poor showing.
The realization made him feel sick.
Not for her.
For himself.
The crystal. That cold mechanical observer in his skull. It was infecting his thoughts. Burying empathy under analysis. Replacing concern with calculation.
He barely heard the buzzer.
"Winner: Brock Ceran."
Brock strutted off the screen, laughing.
A moment later, he swaggered through the winners room door, arms spread like he expected applause.
"What a goddamn disappointment that was," he declared. "Didn't even get to warm up."
Oren turned slowly to face him, eyes blazing.
Brock noticed. Paused. "What?" he said, voice sharp. "You got a problem, pretty boy?"
"I'm coming for you," Oren said, low and flat. "I win my match, I'm going to break you."
Brock chuckled. "Good. I like the sound of that."
He cracked his knuckles and walked off, dragging that cocky aura like a tail behind him.
No one else in the room said anything.
Everyone had seen it.
Everyone had heard the way Aurelia screamed.
Everyone had felt the ugly silence that followed.
Then the announcer returned.
"Oren Voss. Harvin Rook. Proceed to the stage."
Oren didn't look back.
He just walked.
His opponent, a tall man with silver hair tied into a high ponytail and a sleeveless armored jacket, followed silently. Harvin didn't look like much, but the giant greataxe strapped to his back said enough.
As the door slid shut behind them, Ronin remained motionless.
Watching the screen.
Waiting.
Still wondering how much of himself he'd lost already—and how much more he was willing to give up to win.