The Registry did not announce its attention.
It allowed attention to manifest.
Vire felt it before he understood it. The rhythm of Sector Veil shifted—barely perceptible, but persistent. Corridors that once flowed without friction now resisted movement. People adjusted their routes with quiet irritation, as if the environment itself had grown selective.
Panopticon was narrowing.
Vire responded by doing nothing new.
He followed familiar paths, kept his pace aligned with the average, and avoided any behavior that could be read as intention. Invisibility was not achieved through absence, but through conformity. The more precisely he mirrored the sector, the less he existed as an individual variable.
Still, conformity left residue.
The first sign was subtle.
A marking on a support pillar near a lower transit junction. Not fresh, but deliberate. Letters carved shallowly into the concrete, clean enough to be intentional, careless enough to suggest confidence.
RAZEK
Below it, a second word—smaller, angled differently, as if added later.
Bone-Turner
Vire stopped at a distance. He did not touch the surface. Physical contact created traceability, and traceability invited reconstruction. He committed the name to memory and moved on.
Names in Panopticon were rare.
Reputations were safer. They spread without anchors.
By the end of the cycle, Vire saw the name again. This time etched into a railing overlooking the lower avenues. Same depth. Same hand. Same tool.
A pattern.
The third appearance came with context.
Two figures stood near a collapsed access arch, their conversation tight and controlled.
"He won't refuse," one said.
"He always pushes the limit," the other replied. "That's his pattern."
"Then the Registry will—"
"They already have."
Vire passed without slowing.
Patterns were currency here. The Registry traded exclusively in them.
On the seventh cycle, the sky opened.
The aperture formed above the central span of Sector Veil, a perfect circle of controlled light. Movement slowed across every level as attention aligned upward. No one spoke. No one needed to.
The Draw had begun.
Vire stood where he was, posture neutral, breathing steady. He had prepared for this moment for years without ever expecting it to arrive.
Names appeared.
The first meant nothing to him.
The second carried weight elsewhere.
The third triggered a murmur.
The fourth ended all speculation.
VIRE
The world compressed for a fraction of a second. Then discipline took over. Vire allowed no visible response—no shift in stance, no tightening of his jaw. The name was simply data. Data could be managed.
Opposite it, another name appeared.
RAZEK
Beneath both names, a designation followed.
Sanctioned Duel
The sector reacted—not loudly, but collectively. This was not escalation. This was procedure. Heads would not intervene. Enforcement units would not move.
One versus one.
Clean.
The aperture dimmed. The names vanished.
A location appeared briefly before dissolving into nothing.
Lower Transit Arena – Sector Veil
Time was not provided.
It never was.
Vire turned and walked.
He did not hurry. Haste drew memory. He chose maintenance routes and secondary stairs, avoiding the main thoroughfares where attention pooled. Along the way, he adjusted his equipment—tightened bindings, tested joint range, recalibrated balance.
No weapon appeared in his hands.
That choice was deliberate.
The Lower Transit Arena was not an arena by design. It was a space Panopticon allowed to degrade. Broken platforms, fractured flooring, exposed pylons, and suspended rails created hazards without symmetry. There were no clean lines. No neutral ground.
By the time Vire arrived, Razek was already there.
He stood near the center, weight grounded, posture efficient. His armor was layered and worn, reinforced at joints rather than surfaces. A heavy blade rested against his shoulder—not raised, not threatening, simply present.
Razek's calm was practiced.
That made him dangerous.
His eyes tracked Vire's approach with quiet assessment, noting gait, spacing, and center of mass. When he spoke, his voice carried without effort.
"You don't look like a duelist."
"I'm not," Vire replied.
"Registry disagrees."
"The Registry observes," Vire said. "It doesn't care what things look like."
Razek smiled faintly. "That why they paired you with me?"
"Probably."
They began to circle.
No signal marked the start. No boundary defined the space. Each adjusted to the terrain instinctively, mapping instability and leverage with every step.
Razek moved first.
Not a charge. A step. He closed distance with intent, the blade descending in a controlled arc aimed at Vire's shoulder—not a kill strike, but a test.
Vire stepped inside the arc.
He redirected rather than blocked, turning his forearm just enough to slide the blade past his body. Impact vibrated through bone, but he remained upright.
Razek adjusted immediately, rotating his hips and bringing the blade around for a backhand cut.
Vire dropped.
The edge passed overhead. His foot swept toward Razek's ankle. Razek jumped—minimal elevation—and came down hard where Vire's knee had been a moment earlier.
Concrete cracked.
They separated.
Neither breathed hard.
"Good," Razek said quietly. "You move like someone who's learned from pain."
Vire did not answer.
Razek advanced again, faster now. The blade moved with purpose, strikes chaining together, each one designed to compress space and limit escape. He was not attacking blindly.
He was herding.
Vire retreated two steps, then pivoted, using a collapsed beam to break the line of attack. The blade grazed his sleeve, fabric tearing. Pain registered, distant and controlled.
He countered with a short strike aimed at Razek's ribs.
Razek absorbed it, armor dispersing the force, and responded with a headbutt that snapped Vire's vision white for a split second. Vire rolled aside as the blade slammed into the ground where his skull had been.
This was not spectacle.
This was execution measured in inches.
Vire recalculated. Razek's strength was real, but not reckless. Bone-Turner did not break bones through force alone. He did it through positioning—forcing joints into compromise, then applying pressure.
Vire could not allow grappling.
He changed rhythm.
Instead of retreating, he stepped laterally, letting Razek's momentum carry past him. He struck low, then high, forcing Razek to guard his centerline. It bought him space—seconds at most.
Enough.
Vire vaulted onto a broken platform, gaining elevation. Razek followed without hesitation, blade rising.
The platform shifted under their combined weight.
Metal groaned.
The Registry watched.
Razek smiled fully now. "You're not invisible anymore."
Vire planted his feet.
"No," he said. "I just stopped pretending."
Razek lunged.
The platform failed.
Both men dropped.
And the arena surged upward to meet them.