The sun barely breached the synthetic skyline when Zay's boots crunched against the shattered polymer tiles outside the place that had once been his sanctuary. "Steel Saint Gym" flickered dimly on the busted neon sign above, sputtering like a dying star. The alley reeked of ozone and grease, but it was the silence that unsettled him—no shouts from Coach Vic, no rattling chains from the heavybags inside. Just a piece of dirty, curling paper pinned to the bolted metal door.
All fighters to relocate. Gym seized by State Division 14 due to unpaid commercial licensing and rent. Coach Vic has vacated. Access terminated.
The words dug into Zay's gut with cold fingers. He stared at the jagged handwriting at the bottom—Vic's unmistakable scrawl. The old man didn't even say goodbye. After six years of blood, sweat, and bruises, he just vanished into the smoke of debt and fear. Zay clenched the note so hard the edges sliced his fingers. He tasted copper. He didn't care. There was no time for grief. The Steel Saint was gone. But the dream—that molten fire in his chest that no eviction notice could smother—still roared. He would find another gym. Even if it meant crossing districts where his kind were hunted like rats.
He set off toward Sector H13, where a rumor had once traced whispers of a half-functioning gym called "GravEdge"—a pit so deep in the ruins, even drones didn't fly over it. Five miles of jagged terrain, hostile zones, and scavenger territories. No one walked there unarmed. Zay ran it. Each stride a refusal. Each block a vow. The city blurred past in shades of rust and neon, but the path bent near the Hollow Loop—where the city's veins were clogged with gangs like parasites. And Zay, alone, determined, and radiating heat like a power cell on overload, was spotted.
They came out of the dark like wolves from the static fog. Five of them. Ragged exosuits and glinting blades, eyes hungry and bodies wired from synth-dust highs. "Yo, afro boy," the leader hissed, rotating a plasma crowbar in his grip. "What's a pretty heavyweight like you doin' without a leash?" They circled. Serrated edges. Flickering knives. One even had a shockwhip. All Zay had were his fists—and the kind of rage that made steel whimper.
He didn't speak. He just stepped forward. No warning. No mercy. His first punch caved the jaw of the nearest thug in a wet explosion of bone and spit. The man collapsed like a marionette with slashed strings, his own teeth embedded in his throat. A blade flashed toward Zay's ribs—he caught the arm mid-swing, twisted until cartilage snapped, then jammed the elbow backwards through the attacker's spine. The man screamed, but only for a second. Zay crushed his windpipe with a backhand that sounded like a meat cleaver through a roast.
The whip cracked. Zay rolled under it, came up inside the wielder's guard, and hammered his knee into the thug's gut so hard the man vomited blood instantly. Zay grabbed the whip handle mid-gag and drove it through the attacker's eye socket with one brutal thrust. The last two rushed him together—one with a jagged pipe, the other with electrified brass knuckles. It didn't matter. Zay ducked low, swept one's legs, then stomped down on his face until the alley echoed with wet, rhythmic smashes and the ground became soaked with pulp. The final thug froze, eyes wide, trembling. He didn't even raise his fists.
Zay stepped toward him, chest heaving, blood running from his fists like oil. "Go," he growled, voice thick with the weight of fury and destiny. The thug stumbled back, dropped his weapon, and fled into the mist like a ghost escaping Hell. Zay didn't watch him go. He was already walking, already running, already imagining the ropes of his next ring, the impact of leather on flesh, the sound of a crowd that would one day chant his name.
By the time he reached GravEdge, his clothes were soaked with blood—some his, most not. But his eyes… they burned like molten alloy. The gym, barely more than a dome of rusted scaffolding and hanging lights, loomed before him like a cathedral of violence. But it wasn't the state of the place that mattered. It was the fact that it was open. His sanctuary, his battlefield, his altar. Zay stepped inside, dragging the city's blood behind him like a red comet, and grinned with cracked lips.
Steel Saint was gone. The world didn't care. But he did. Every fiber in his body, every scar, every cracked knuckle screamed the same truth: You will know my name.