The next night, Lucius sat on a building ledge, eating takeout with his legs dangling over a six-story drop. The city sprawled below, neon bleeding into the darkness.
His comm device buzzed. Amber.
He tapped it. "Yeah?"
"Hey. Just wanted to give you an update." Her voice carried that exhausted edge it always did. "I'm getting close to cracking the auction date. Maybe another week, week and a half tops."
Lucius paused mid-bite. "That fast? You said a few days last time."
"Yeah, that's what I thought too, cracked the language but the encryption is more complex than I thought. But I'm making progress."
"Good." Lucius set down his food. "Because I still have to go in."
"Wait, what? Go in where?"
"The underground. Tournament. Long story, but it's my best shot at finding the kid."
Silence. Then: "Lucius, once you go in, you're going dark. No tech, no comms. The Big Boys don't play around with security down there."
"I know."
"So if I crack the date while you're inside—"
"Then you'll have to find a way to reach me." Lucius leaned back against the concrete. "But if the auction's most likely coming up soon and I can't get word, I'll just abort. Find a way out, abandon the kid for now. Auction takes priority."
Another pause. Amber's typing stopped. "You sure about this?"
"No. But it's the play we've got." He stood, brushed crumbs from his jacket. "Just crack that date. I'll handle the rest."
"Alright. Good luck. And Lucius?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't die down there. I don't want to explain to Jasmine why I let you do something stupid."
"When have I ever done anything stupid?"
"You want that list alphabetically or chronologically?"
Lucius smiled despite himself. "I'll check in when I'm out."
The line went dead.
He pulled out the burner phone. Time to call Tony.
---
"Hey, it's Tony. Everything's done. Just awaiting payment."
"Alright, hold on." Lucius pulled out his actual phone, transferred the funds with a few swipes. "I've made the transfer."
"Yeah, I see it. Just head to the scrapyard on East Industrial. The guy I told you about will be waiting." Tony's voice dropped slightly. "He'll handle everything. Just do as he says."
"Alright. Understood."
The line went dead.
Lucius stared at both phones in his hands. Should probably get rid of these before going into the underground.
He headed for Robert's bike.
---
The scrapyard was exactly what it sounded like—rusted metal corpses stacked in precarious towers, oil-stained ground, the smell of decay and industry. Lucius killed the engine, dismounted, checked his phone.
This should be the place. So where's the guy?
A whistle cut through the silence.
Lucius turned toward the sound.
A man emerged from between two mountains of scrap metal, flanked by a group of thugs. Big guy—easily six-three, built like his nickname suggested. Scarred face, confidence that came from years of not getting killed.
"Yo, are you Lucius?"
"Yeah. And you must be the guy."
Tank walked forward, and they dapped—the universal handshake of people doing illegal business. "Name's Tank. All the arrangements have been made. Just follow me."
Lucius fell in step beside him. Tank's crew followed at a distance as they headed deeper into the scrapyard, toward a half-buried concrete structure that looked like a Cold War bunker someone had forgotten about.
Tank gestured for his guys to wait outside. The metal door groaned open.
Inside: sparse. A desk, some chairs, a single flickering light. Maps on the walls, most of them marked with locations Lucius recognized from Green Gate intel.
Tank leaned against the desk, arms folded. "So you're the one I've heard so much about."
"Yeah, yeah. Let's skip the chit-chat and get straight to the point."
Tank smirked. "Alright. As you know, there's only one way to get to the underground, and the Big Boys hold exclusive rights to it. Going in without their permission is practically impossible."
"I'm aware of that much."
"And you'd also know that even if you somehow manage to get in, one of their Enforcers has an ability that wipes your memory of everything that happened there. Makes whatever you intended to find out completely useless."
Lucius's eyes narrowed. "Let's skip to the part where you tell me you have a way for me to get in, shall we?"
"Good. You're quick on the uptake." Tank straightened. "To put it simply, I have the ability to switch the places of two people I've tagged—within a limited time frame and distance."
Spatial manipulation. Probably Essence Bound given the specificity and the "tagging" requirement. Genetic-bound spatial abilities usually don't need prep work.
"Now, I already have one of my guys on the inside who was supposed to partake in the tournament. However, the probability of him winning is close to zero." Tank's expression darkened. "From what I've heard, there are some real dangerous fuckers participating this year."
He met Lucius's eyes. "That's where you come in. I'll switch you and my guy. You'll take his place in the tournament. Don't worry—everything from his end is already handled. You'll be practically undiscoverable."
"Okay. Understandable."
"However, there's one more thing."
"What?"
"From what Tony told me, you're quite capable. You could end up winning this tournament." Tank's smile turned predatory. "So if you do, I'll be needing sixty percent of the reward money."
Lucius blinked. "Wait, wait, wait. I thought I already paid you."
"Yeah. That's just the money for me to get you to the underground. Not to give up the spot my guy holds in the tournament."
"That hardly seems fair."
Tank shrugged. "Well, you don't really have much of a choice now, 'cause I'm sure as hell not giving you any refunds. With that being said, I'll only collect my share if you win."
Lucius sighed, running the math. Sixty percent was steep, but if the prize was substantial enough... "Only if I win."
"Yes. Only if you win."
"Well, fuck it. Let's do this."
Tank pushed off the desk. "Good. I'll send you there right away. If you have any requests, now's the time."
"Two questions and a request." Lucius held up fingers. "You said I'll be replacing one of your men. Does that mean he's already registered for the tournament?"
"Nope. A man named King is registered."
Lucius paused. Just for a second.
"King."
"Yeah. King." Tank watched him. "There's no need for you to know the details. Just know everything is already set up. The only thing you have to worry about is winning."
King. Of all the fucking names. That's not a coincidence. Lucius filed it away, kept his expression neutral. "I see. One more question. How many people can you swap with your ability?"
"Depends on size. The bigger a creature is, the fewer I can switch." Tank considered. "For humans, I can swap about two at a time after I tag them. For something smaller, like a dog or cat? Ten to twenty, max."
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I have a request."
Tank's smirk returned. "It's gonna cost you."
---
Darkness.
Then light.
Lucius opened his eyes. Bathroom stall. Sitting. His own clothes, his own body—just different location.
Something covered his face. He reached up, felt smooth metal. A mask with eye sockets, locked at the back of his head. He could see through it—narrow slits that limited peripheral vision but allowed forward sight. He tried to remove it—wouldn't budge.
Security measure. Makes sense. Limits what you can see on the way in.
Next to him on the floor sat a duffel bag—dark blue, worn but sturdy. His change of clothes for however long this tournament lasted.
He stood, grabbed the bag, checked himself. Everything intact. The swap had just relocated him.
The PA system crackled: "Contestant Number 27, King, report to Security Checkpoint Alpha."
That's me.
He exited the stall. Industrial bathroom—white tile, fluorescent lights, cold. Empty.
Outside, a waiting area. The space stretched wider than he'd expected—probably designed to hold dozens of masked contestants during peak arrival times. Rows of metal benches lined both walls, bolted to the floor. Scratches and dents marked the seats, evidence of years of nervous fighters waiting their turn. A few vending machines hummed in the far corner, one flickering erratically. Fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh white, making the few remaining people look washed out and skeletal.
Only a handful remained now—late arrivals like him. Most sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, masks making them all anonymous shadows. One paced near the vending machines, restless energy barely contained. Another lay stretched across a bench, either sleeping or pretending to.
Armed guards stationed at intervals watched with professional disinterest—tactical gear, rifles held ready but not aimed. They'd seen this routine a thousand times. Their eyes tracked movement without real engagement, bored sentinels going through the motions.
The air smelled like disinfectant trying to cover sweat and anxiety. Industrial ventilation hummed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, metal clanged—maintenance, or maybe something being moved.
Down the hallway beyond the waiting area, Lucius could see another checkpoint glowing in the distance. Harsh white light. More guards.
He walked past the remaining contestants. A few looked up—quick glances through mask eye-slits—but no one spoke. Everyone keeping to themselves.
---
Security Checkpoint Alpha sat at the end of a long corridor. No turns, no side passages. Just straight ahead, funneling everyone through one controlled point.
The checkpoint itself was a wide room with armed guards at every corner—full tactical gear, assault rifles, the works. Three staff members in white uniforms sat behind a long counter: two men, one woman.
Beyond them, the hallway split three ways. Straight ahead: massive reinforced doors marked ENTERTAINMENT DISTRICT - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Left: signs pointing to branching corridors. Right: TOURNAMENT ARENA.
The woman in the center looked up as Lucius approached. "Number 27?"
"Yes."
"Come forward." She pulled out a specialized key—electronic, biometric scanner built in. "Removing mask."
She inserted the key into the back of Lucius's mask. A click, then a hiss. The mask came free.
The woman paused, just for a moment. Her eyes lingered on his face—longer than professional assessment required.
One of the male staff members glanced over, did a double-take.
Lucius kept his expression neutral. Used to this reaction by now.
The woman cleared her throat, professional mask sliding back into place. "Take out any items or weapons you have on you. Nothing will be allowed past this point."
Lucius set the duffel bag on the counter first. "Here. Change of clothes."
One of the male staff members unzipped it, quickly rifled through. Pants, shirts, underwear, socks—nothing unusual. He zipped it back up, set it aside. "Clothes are fine."
Lucius opened his jacket. "Sure."
He pulled out his handgun—a custom built 44. magnum—and placed it on the counter.
Then four grenades. One by one.
The staff members stared.
Brass knuckles. A folding knife. A small canister of pepper spray. A length of chain. A second knife. A jar of—
"Is that jam?" one of the male staff asked.
"Strawberry." Lucius kept going. Protein bars. A flashlight. A roll of duct tape. A screwdriver. Another grenade. A small first-aid kit.
The guards were watching now, expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion.
A lighter. A pack of gum. A USB drive. A small notebook. A pen. Three more protein bars. A chocolate bar. A—
"Oh, that's where it was." Lucius pulled out a banana, slightly bruised. He peeled it, took a bite.
The woman behind the counter looked at him. Just looked.
Lucius kept pulling. A coil of wire. A small hammer. Zip ties. A whistle. Another flashlight. A bag of trail mix. A—
"Is that a rubber duck?" the second male staff member asked.
"For morale." Lucius set it down.
Finally, he shook his jacket. Nothing rattled. He patted himself down, checked his pockets.
He finished the banana, casually dropped the peel on the floor.
"That's all."
The woman's expression was somewhere between professional and deeply tired. "Is that all?"
Lucius nodded.
One of the guards pointed at the floor. "Oy! Pick that shit up!"
Lucius looked down at the banana peel. Looked back at the guard. "No."
The guard's expression darkened. "What did you just say?"
"I said no. What, you hard of hearing?" Lucius kept his tone casual, almost bored. "You want it picked up, you do it. I'm not your janitor."
The guard's hand tightened on his rifle. The tension in the room spiked. Other guards shifted, ready.
But they couldn't act. Contestants were valuable. The Big Boys wouldn't appreciate damaged merchandise.
The guard settled for a glare that promised future pain.
The woman cut in, professional mask back in place. "Proceed."
Lucius turned toward the body scanner—
"Oh wait, I forgot something."
He reached into his jacket one more time, pulled out a small glass container. An ant farm. The kind kids kept, complete with tunnels and a colony of ants moving through the sand.
He took a step toward the counter—
His foot hit the banana peel.
Lucius's arms pinwheeled. The ant farm flew from his hands, tumbling through the air.
It shattered on the floor.
Glass everywhere. Sand spreading. And ants—dozens of them—scattering in every direction.
"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" One of the staff rushed forward, but the ants were already dispersing, crawling into cracks, between equipment, under the counter.
The guard who'd demanded he pick up the peel gave a satisfied scoff, grinning. Karma.
"Shit, sorry, sorry." Lucius picked himself up, brushing glass off. "Accident. My bad."
The staff scrambled. One grabbed a comm: "We need maintenance in Checkpoint Alpha. Biological contamination."
The woman looked at Lucius with exhausted patience. "Just—go through the scanner."
Lucius did, arms raised. Clean. One of the male staff performed a pat-down. Also clean.
"You're good." The man handed him back the duffel bag, then called over one of the guards—not the antagonized one. "Escort him to fighter quarters."
The guard nodded. "Follow me."
As they walked toward the left corridor, Lucius noticed it split again—left fork marked STAFF QUARTERS, right fork FIGHTER QUARTERS.
They took the right path.
The guard gave rapid-fire instructions. "Fighter quarters down this hall. You'll be assigned a room. Training area is open 24/7. Meals three times a day in the mess hall. Public toilets are in the hallway if you need them, but your room has a bathroom. Tournament arena opens once matches begin—you can watch from contestant viewing section. Entertainment District—" He gestured back toward the massive doors. "—is completely off-limits unless personally invited by an executive. Don't even think about trying."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They stopped at a door marked 27. "Your room. Someone will get you for the tournament briefing. Until then, stay in quarters. Don't cause trouble."
"I'm the picture of good behavior."
The guard's expression suggested he didn't believe that for a second.
The door locked from the outside after Lucius entered.
Small room. Bed, desk, bathroom. Spartan but functional.
Lucius set the duffel bag on the bed, sat down, waited for the footsteps to fade.
Then frowned.
Too smooth. Way too smooth.
"King" registration. The timing. The access.
Someone wanted me here specifically.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Question is: who, and what do they want?
Three days until the tournament.
Time to find out.
---
TO BE CONTINUED