The shard-drive sat on the cot like a blade sheathed in glass. He hadn't touched it. Not yet. He didn't want data. He wanted silence. He wanted time. But Kajlamas didn't offer either.
The alarm buzzed at cycle-start. A flat mechanical tone that meant fight prep in two hours. He sat up. No stretch, no groan. His body didn't complain, it just moved.
He wrapped his hands tighter. Checked his own work. No slack in the cloth. No give. Good. He stepped into the corridor barefoot again. Concrete cold, but familiar. He liked the chill. It made his blood sharp.
A guard walked with him toward the pit. Young, bored. Kept glancing at him like he wanted to ask a question. He didn't.
Gray stopped just outside the prep cage. The guard opened the security door and stepped back. Too far back.
"Imported?" Gray asked.
The guard flinched. "Yeah. From Vemrial Core. Fights out of the Blood Chrome Syndicate. Calls himself The Surgeon."
Gray nodded once.
The hallway to the cage was dark. Leaking steam from broken vents. Every step brought back the rhythm. The sound of bones hitting mats. He liked this part. Not the fight. The walk. The moment before motion.
Inside the prep cage, the lights burned hotter. The mat had been scrubbed. New plastic wrap on the walls. VIP night.
The announcer's voice cracked over the intercom. No showboating. Just names.
"Gray Thing. Code CR-05. Entering cage two."
He stepped into the ring.
No flash. No stance. He just stood.
Across from him, the cage door opened. The man who walked in wore nothing flashy. Shaved scalp, stitched tattoos up the ribs. Gloves laced with carbon-plated knuckles. Medical-grade boots. No smile.
The announcer didn't finish the other name.
The man raised his hands. His stance was clean. Center weight. Defensive. But not passive.
Gray stepped forward.
The bell cracked.
The Surgeon moved fast.
Lead hook, then step-through elbow. A bait. Gray read it, ducked left. Countered with a palm strike to the sternum. The sound was flat. The Surgeon rolled with it, stepped in close, head down.
They clinched.
Gray hooked behind the knee, tried to twist him off-balance. The Surgeon dropped weight and pivoted out, dragging his foot across the top of Gray's toes to break stance.
Smart.
They separated.
Gray touched his left elbow. Tender.
The Surgeon didn't wait. Side-step into a spear jab. Gray leaned back, countered with a heel-kick, caught nothing but air.
Then the Surgeon came low.
Takedown attempt. Single leg.
Gray dropped weight, drove his forearm into the back of the neck. The Surgeon let go and snapped a short elbow into Gray's ribs. A sharp crack.
Gray smiled. Brief. Not joy. Just recognition.
He backed off.
The Surgeon didn't chase. He waited.
Gray let his breathing slow.
Crowd sounds distant. Like underwater.
He moved again. Quick, efficient. Lead feint, high kick disguised as a side-step. The Surgeon blocked it but his elbow flared wide.
Gray dove under.
Wrapped both arms around the waist. Lifted.
Slam.
The mat thudded.
But the Surgeon grabbed wrist control on the way down. Twisted. Wrist lock. Pain like fire up Gray's arm. He dropped a knee into the Surgeon's ribs. Another. A third.
The Surgeon held on.
Gray rotated with the momentum, rolled into a reversal, then slammed his own back into the mat to break the hold with sheer weight.
Grip loosened. He pulled free.
They both rolled to their feet.
Now both bleeding from the mouth.
The announcer said nothing.
Gray moved first.
Left jab, overhand right, elbow into collarbone, then a feint knee that became a trip sweep.
The Surgeon hit the mat. Rolled.
Too slow.
Gray caught him mid-roll and dropped a heel into his floating ribs.
The Surgeon gasped.
Gray straddled. Dropped a fist.
The Surgeon raised an arm to block. Wrong arm. Gray caught the wrist. Twisted.
The sound it made wasn't a snap.
It was a rip.
Ligaments tearing. Then bone. Clean.
The Surgeon screamed.
Gray stood up. Backed away.
Let the man writhe.
He looked at the judges' box. No signal.
He waited.
Still nothing.
So he walked forward.
Grabbed the Surgeon's other arm.
Pulled him upright.
And whispered something that only the man heard.
The Surgeon stopped screaming.
Just stared.
Gray let go.
Walked to the cage door. It opened without a word.
He stepped into the corridor. The guard from earlier stood there, eyes wide.
Gray held out a hand.
The guard gave him the payment chip without a word.
He didn't look at it.
Just walked.
All the way back to the dorms, where the cot waited. The shard-drive still sat where he'd left it.
This time, he picked it up.
He plugged it into the wall terminal. The screen flickered. A loading symbol. Then a file name.
**CR-05 / RED SEED FILE / PARTIAL**
He opened it.
The screen blinked once.
Then a video. Grainy. A snowfield. A young boy twelve, maybe. Naked except for cloth around the waist. Kneeling beside a dead bio-beast. His hands were shaking. His eyes were not.
Behind him, a soldier spoke.
"Subject CR-05 demonstrates precise kill capability. Memory override recommended before extraction. Behavioral unpredictability risk: high."
Another voice.
Female. Cold. "He's too useful to lose. Erase the name. Keep the rage."
The screen froze on the boy's face.
He didn't blink.
Just stared at the blood on his hands like he didn't know where it came from.
Gray sat back.
And for the first time in years, he heard a sound in his own head.
Not words.
A name.
But it wasn't his.
Not yet.
He shut off the screen.