Chapter 33 #2
I catch a glimpse of Kang in the upper tier, arms folded, eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod. Just watches.
I wonder what he sees.
I wonder if he cares.
I wonder if I do.
The next fight is called. I don’t even hear the numbers. I just sit, breathing, cataloguing the pain in my hands, the cut on my lip, the new bruises forming under the skin.
Stitch leans over, whispers, “They’ll remember that.”
I look at the pit, the blood, the bodies.
So will I.
When the matches are done, the guards round us up, march us back to the block. The air is colder now, the sweat on my body already freezing.
In the cell, I strip off the jumpsuit, catalog the damage. Nothing permanent, but enough to remind me tomorrow.
I lie on the bunk, arms behind my head, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
I think about Kang.
I think about the pit.
I think about what comes next.
The guards never say when it’s your turn again.
There’s no posted schedule, no countdown, only a sick intuition that builds until the knock comes—then it’s go time, whether you’re ready or not.
For me, it’s less than 24 hours. I’m still counting the bruises from yesterday when they come, two men in matte gray, visors down, hands practiced and bored.
They don’t bother with the leash. They just grab, one at each arm, and march me out, not even letting my feet touch the floor until we reach the stairwell.
No crowd this time, no fanfare. They take me down a different set of stairs, the ones that smell like bleach and old piss, where the lights flicker and the graffiti on the wall is fresher, more urgent. The echo of my own breathing is loud against the cinderblock.
At the bottom, a steel door waits, pitted with impact marks. One guard punches a code, the other shoves me forward.
Inside, the pit is the same. Maybe dirtier, maybe more crowded, or maybe that’s just my perspective. The noise is immediate—a hundred throats screaming, chanting, desperate for spectacle. The air’s worse than before, thick with the stink of blood and disappointment.
The guard behind me gives a last shove, sends me tumbling the last meter. I hit the concrete on my hands, scraping skin raw, but roll and pop up before anyone can laugh. I’ve seen what happens to the ones who stay down.
The pit floor is littered with debris. Not just blood, but the leavings of a dozen failed improvisations: broken plastic from a riot shield, a metal shard that might once have been part of a spoon, the jagged bottom of a bottle.
There’s even a handful of old lab test tubes, each with a sliver of colored liquid at the bottom, relics from a past experiment or a joke left by the cleaning crew.
I catalog it all in one glance, prioritize the sharpest, most reliable, most likely to get through bone or muscle.
I move toward the best piece, a flattened bit of steel with a grip already shaped by someone else’s desperate hand, but the crowd surges and a chant goes up.
From the far side, my opponent appears.
She’s a wall of a woman, a good ten centimeters taller than me, wide through the shoulders and neckless in that way only old pros or ex-soldiers get.
Her prison jumpsuit is ripped at the sleeves, showing arms so thick they could have their own names.
Tattoos everywhere—barbed wire, snakes, Authority insignia crossed out with black marker.
And her eyes: one blue, one brown, both locked on me like I’m already a memory.
She drops into the pit with a thud that shakes the glass. The crowd loves her. They know her, or fear her, or both.
The bell doesn’t ring. There’s no bell. Someone just yells “Go!” and she’s coming.
I duck left, feint, but she’s faster than she looks. A fist the size of a baby lands on my cheek, snapping my head around and splitting my lip. The taste of copper floods my mouth, hot and immediate. She comes again, left-right, each blow a perfect piston, designed to smash bone into dust.
I block, catch her wrist, and try to twist, but it’s like grappling with a piece of industrial equipment. She laughs, lifts me bodily, and throws me into the chain barrier. The impact rattles every tooth in my skull.
The crowd is rabid—pounding on the glass, screaming for more.
My vision blurs for a second, but I stay up.
I reach for the shard I’d clocked before, fingers slick with blood.
She sees, and stomps down, barely missing my hand.
I let go, pivot, and drive a fist into her kidney.
She grunts, then grabs my hair and slams my forehead into the concrete.
There’s a second, just before the black creeps in, where the face above me isn’t hers. It flickers—white coat, a corridor, someone yelling my name. Then it’s gone. When I come back, I’m on my knees, the world bright and blue around the edges. I spit, taste blood, and look up.
She’s waiting, arms wide, inviting me to come at her.
I do.
I scramble up, zigzag to the side, and go for her knee.
She shifts, takes the hit, and brings down an elbow that glances off my shoulder but still numbs the arm to the wrist. I swing a left hook, catch her in the ear, but it’s like hitting old leather.
She shoves me, hard, and I tumble backwards, landing near the line of debris again.
This time I grab the shard, hold it low.
It slips in my grip, slick with blood. One wrong angle and it’ll break in my hand, but I don’t have another play.
She charges. I let her get close, then slash up, aiming for her face.
She sees it coming, blocks with her forearm, and the edge catches on the meat, opening a line from wrist to elbow.
She roars, not in pain, but in fury, and headbutts me full in the nose.
Stars explode behind my eyes.
I hit the ground, taste nothing but blood and mucus. I hear the crowd chanting something, but the words are lost in the haze.
I try to get up, but she’s on me, pinning my shoulders, knees on my chest. She presses down, squeezing the air out. Her breath is right in my face, hot and sour, her eyes alive with the pleasure of the moment.
I punch, weak, at her thigh, but it does nothing. She leans in, puts her hand around my throat, and starts to squeeze.
Black creeps in from the edges. Kang said I was built to adapt. Let’s see if he was right. My fingers search blindly, find a fragment of glass. I jab it up, into her side. She howls, lets go, and I roll free, sucking air like it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
I stagger to my feet, glass still in hand. She’s bleeding now, a steady drip down her jumpsuit, but she barely seems to notice. She charges again, swinging wild. I duck, jam the glass into her armpit as she passes. She grabs my wrist, twists, and I feel something tear in the joint.
I scream. The sound is lost in the chaos.