I needed money.
Haven wasn't free. Nothing was free, not really.
Food cost money. Rooms cost money. Information cost even more, and I needed information about Rainbow, about the syndrome, about what was happening to Mara.
The underground arena was smaller than Graveyard's. A pit carved from the base's old gymnasium, sand thrown over concrete, ropes for boundaries. It smelled of mold and sweat and desperation. But it existed, and where there was an arena, there was money.
I entered. The promoter was a woman with a shaved head and a neck tattoo of a snake eating its own tail. She looked at my gloves.
"You fight with those?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I want to."
She shrugged. "Fine. Fifty to enter. Winner takes two hundred. No kill bonus—Haven doesn't allow deaths. Too small. Too messy."
I entered the arena.
My opponent was a woman named Rhea. Fast.
Armed with two short blades that caught the light.
She moved like water, all flow and no hesitation.
The bell rang.
Rhea attacked. I dodged. She moved quickly—too quickly for a normal human, augmented maybe, or just naturally gifted. Her blade cut my cheek. Blood appeared, black in the arena lights.
I touched it. My fingers trembled. The hunger surged, a wave of need that made my vision tunnel.
Rhea attacked again. I caught her wrist.
Black substance spread across my hand. Pain shot through my bones—the transformation trying to force its way out, trying to integrate with another living body. I released her, staggering back, clutching my arm.
Rhea stared. "What the hell?"
I didn't answer. I removed my damaged glove. My right hand was changing. Black liquid wrapped around my fingers. The claws emerged, slowly, beautifully, like a flower blooming in reverse.
The crowd went silent. A hundred people, holding their breath.
I looked at my hand. Then at Rhea. "Stay back."
She attacked anyway. Pride. Fear. The need to prove she wasn't afraid of a monster.
I moved. I struck her weapon aside with my clawed hand, the metal blade sparking against black substance harder than steel. Then I stopped my claws centimeters from her throat.
Silence.
I could hear her heartbeat. I could smell her fear. But this time... I controlled it. I felt the hunger, acknowledged it, and pushed it down. The black substance obeyed, retreating, disappointed.
I lowered my hand. The claws retracted. The substance disappeared.
The crowd erupted.
I walked away. I hadn't killed her. That mattered. In a world where every fight was to the death, where every opponent was meat, I had chosen mercy. I was learning. The Beast responded to will, not just instinct.
I was learning to be the master, not the monster.