The roar died in Marcus's throat.
The adrenaline that had been keeping him upright, keeping him conscious through the pain and blood loss, suddenly evaporated. His vision tunneled, the screaming crowd fading to a distant buzz. He felt his legs give out, felt himself falling forward toward the edge of the platform, toward the same drop that had claimed Raptor.
Strong hands caught him. Multiple sets. The handlers had rushed onto the platform the moment he'd started to collapse. They dragged him backward, away from the edge, their voices urgent but incomprehensible. Marcus tried to speak, tried to tell them he was fine, but his jaw wouldn't work properly.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the spotlights above, blazing like dying stars.
Then nothing.
---
Marcus woke to softness.
That was the first thing his brain registered—not pain, not the smell of blood and sweat, not the roar of the crowd. Just... softness. Something yielding beneath him, cradling his body in a way he'd never experienced before.
He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to see the concrete ceiling of his cell, the bare bulb, the metal toilet in the corner.
Instead, he saw a ceiling of smooth white plaster, recessed lighting that glowed with a warm, gentle luminescence. Crown molding. Actual fucking crown molding.
Marcus sat up fast—too fast. His head spun and he had to brace himself with one hand against the mattress beneath him. Mattress. Not a thin pad on a concrete slab. An actual mattress, thick and plush, covered in sheets that felt like liquid against his scales.
He looked down at himself. Someone had cleaned him. The blood was gone, his wounds bandaged with professional care. The gash in his side from the Butcher's cleaver was wrapped in clean white gauze, and he could feel the tight pull of stitches beneath. His other injuries had been similarly treated.
But where the hell was he?
Marcus swung his legs off the bed—and his feet sank into carpet. Thick, expensive carpet that cushioned his claws. He stood, swaying slightly, and took in his surroundings.
The bedroom was massive. Easily four times the size of his cell. The bed he'd been sleeping in was enormous, clearly custom-made to accommodate his size. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, currently covered by heavy blackout curtains. A door stood open on the far side, revealing what looked like a bathroom with gleaming tile and chrome fixtures.
And next to the bed, on a sleek modern desk made of dark wood and glass, sat a single piece of paper.
Marcus approached it slowly, his instincts screaming that this was a trap, that something was wrong. He picked up the paper with claws that could tear through flesh and bone, and read:
---
*APEX,*
*Congratulations on your ascension to 10th place on the popularity rankings. Your performance at the Edge has exceeded all expectations. The Syndicate rewards excellence, and you have proven yourself excellent indeed.*
*This apartment is yours for as long as you maintain your ranking. Twenty-five hundred square feet of luxury in the Upper District. The kitchen is fully stocked. The closet contains clothing tailored to your unique physiology. Your account has been credited with 200,000 credits—spend them as you see fit.*
*You are no longer confined to the facility. You may leave the property, explore the city, indulge in whatever pleasures you desire. Shop. Drink. Party. Fuck. We don't care. Consider it a taste of what awaits you as you continue to climb.*
*But remember, Apex—this freedom is conditional. Maintain your ranking. Keep winning. Keep killing. Keep giving the people what they want. Fall below 10th place, and you return to your cell. Refuse to fight, and... well. You know what happens then.*
*The kill switch remains. You are still ours. But we prefer our champions happy. Motivated. Hungry for more.*
*Don't disappoint us.*
*—K*
---
Marcus read the note three times, his clawed fingers leaving small punctures in the paper. Then he crumpled it and let it fall to the floor.
A gilded cage. That's what this was. They were giving him luxury, freedom, money—all the things he'd never had in his old life—but the leash was still there. Invisible, chemical, lethal. One command from Kade and his blood would turn to poison.
But fuck, what a cage.
Marcus moved through the apartment like a predator exploring new territory. The bedroom opened into a massive living area with leather furniture, a entertainment system that covered half a wall, and more of those floor-to-ceiling windows. He pulled back the curtains and had to shield his eyes against the sudden brightness.
The view stole what little breath he had left.
He was high up—at least thirty floors—looking out over a part of the city he'd only ever seen from below. The Upper District, where the money lived, where the streets were clean and the buildings gleamed with chrome and glass. He could see parks, restaurants, clubs with lines of people waiting to get in. Hover-cars drifted past his window, their occupants probably never imagining that a monster lived among them now.
Marcus pressed one clawed hand against the glass. It was thick, reinforced, probably bulletproof. Even here, even in this luxury, they'd made sure he couldn't escape. Not that it mattered. The kill switch made any escape attempt suicide.
He turned away from the window and continued his exploration.
The kitchen was next. Marcus pushed through a swinging door and stopped dead.
The space was enormous, all stainless steel and black granite, with appliances that probably cost more than he'd made in his entire previous life. But what caught his attention was the food.
The refrigerator was packed. Not with the nutrient paste and protein bars they'd been feeding him in his cell, but with real food. Steaks—thick, marbled, beautiful. Whole chickens. Fish. Vegetables. Fruit. Cheese. Eggs. Things he hadn't tasted in months, maybe years.
Marcus's stomach growled so loudly it echoed off the kitchen tiles.
He grabbed a steak—the biggest one, easily two pounds of raw meat—and didn't bother with cooking it. His jaws tore into the flesh, his teeth shearing through muscle and fat like they were designed for exactly this. Blood ran down his chin, dripped onto the pristine granite countertop, and he didn't care.
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
He devoured the steak in less than a minute, then grabbed another. And another. His body was demanding fuel, demanding replacement for all the blood he'd lost, all the energy he'd burned. He ate until his stomach was distended, until he could barely move, and even then the hunger didn't fully fade.
There was a wine rack built into one wall, filled with bottles that probably cost thousands of credits each. Marcus grabbed one at random, bit the top off—cork, glass, and all—and drank straight from the bottle. The wine was rich and complex, wasted on his reptilian palate, but the alcohol hit his system like a warm wave.
He drank the entire bottle, then grabbed another.
By the time he'd finished the second bottle, the world had taken on a pleasant haze. The pain from his injuries had faded to a dull throb. He felt... good. Better than good. Satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with killing.
Marcus made his way back through the living area, past furniture he was afraid to sit on with his blood-stained claws, and found another door. This one opened into a walk-in closet the size of his old cell.
And it was full of clothes.
Not human clothes—these had been made for him. For his body. Jeans in his size, reinforced to handle his tail, with extra room in the thighs and a lower rise to accommodate his different hip structure. Shirts that would actually fit across his broad chest and shoulders, though most were sleeveless to allow for his greater range of motion. Even shoes—custom-made boots with reinforced toes to handle his claws, open at the back for his digitigrade feet.
Someone had measured him. Studied him. Designed all of this specifically for his transformed body.
Marcus ran his claws over the fabric, feeling the quality. These weren't the cheap clothes he'd worn in his old life, bought from thrift stores and worn until they fell apart. These were expensive. Well-made. The kind of clothes he'd seen on people in the Upper District and never imagined wearing himself.
He pulled on a pair of jeans—they fit perfectly, the denim stretching to accommodate his muscular legs, the tail hole positioned exactly right. He left the shirts alone. He'd gotten used to going bare-chested, liked the way it felt, the freedom of movement. Besides, the shirts would just get ruined in his next fight.
The boots were harder. His feet had changed too much, the claws too prominent, the structure too different. He managed to get them on, but they felt restrictive, uncomfortable. After a few minutes of walking around the apartment, he kicked them off. Bare feet it was.
Marcus caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror mounted on the closet door and stopped.
He barely recognized the creature staring back at him.
Six and a half feet of scaled muscle, jaws that could crush bone, claws that could tear through flesh. But dressed in expensive jeans, standing in a luxury apartment, with the city spread out behind him through those massive windows... he looked almost civilized. Almost human.
Almost.
But his eyes gave him away. They were predator's eyes, cold and calculating, always searching for threats, for prey, for the next fight. The eyes of something that had tasted blood and wanted more.
Marcus turned away from the mirror and walked back to the living area. He stood at the windows again, looking out at the city, at all the people going about their lives, completely unaware that a monster now lived among them.
The Syndicate had given him everything he'd never had. Money. Luxury. Freedom—or at least the illusion of it. They'd taken a desperate man from the lower city and transformed him into something powerful, something feared, something that could make 200,000 credits in a few nights of brutal violence.
But they still owned him.
The kill switch in his blood was a constant reminder. He could leave this apartment, could walk the streets, could spend his money on whatever he wanted. But he couldn't run. Couldn't hide. Couldn't refuse to fight when they called him back to the arena.
He was still a slave. Just a well-fed, well-dressed, well-paid slave.
Marcus pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. The wine was making him philosophical, making him think about things he'd rather ignore. About what he'd become. About what he'd have to do to keep this luxury, this freedom, this life.
Keep winning. Keep killing. Keep climbing.
Until what? Until he reached the top? Until he beat Goliath and became the champion? And then what? Would they let him go? Would they remove the kill switch and set him free?
No. Of course not. Champions were too valuable. They'd keep him fighting until he lost, until someone stronger or faster or smarter tore him apart in front of a screaming crowd. That was the only way out of this life.
Death in the arena.
Marcus opened his eyes and looked out at the city again. Somewhere out there, other fighters were training, preparing, getting stronger. Somewhere out there, Goliath was waiting, undefeated, untouchable. And somewhere in the shadows, Kade was watching, planning, testing.
The Syndicate had given Marcus a taste of the good life. Had shown him what he could have if he kept winning.
And that, Marcus realized, was the most brutal trap of all.
Because now he wanted it. Wanted the luxury, the money, the freedom. Wanted to keep climbing, keep fighting, keep killing, just to hold onto this gilded cage.
They'd made him hungry for more than just blood.
They'd made him hungry for everything.
Marcus smiled, showing all his teeth in the reflection of the window. Fine. If they wanted a monster who'd fight for luxury, who'd kill for comfort, who'd tear apart anyone who stood between him and the top—they'd gotten one.
He'd play their game. He'd climb their rankings. He'd give them the violence they craved.
But someday, somehow, he'd find a way to break the leash.
And when he did, the Syndicate would learn what it meant to create a true apex predator.
For now, though, he had 200,000 credits, a stocked kitchen, and a city full of distractions waiting outside his door.
Marcus turned away from the window and headed for the bathroom. He needed a shower—a real shower, with hot water and soap, not the cold hose-down they'd given him in his cell.
Tomorrow, he'd explore the city. He'd spend some of his blood money. He'd see what the Upper District had to offer a monster with credits to burn.
But tonight, he'd rest in his gilded cage and dream of freedom.
And blood.
Always blood.