Marcus woke up on a thin mattress in a narrow room that smelled like disinfectant and metal.
No windows. No clock. Just a soft light in the ceiling that never flickered. His hands ached. His ribs complained when he breathed too deep. Whoever designed Iron City understood efficiency no luxury, no comfort, just enough to keep you functional.
A panel slid open in the wall.
DAY ONE: ACTIVE
RANK: UNCLASSIFIED
NEXT EVALUATION: 03:47
Three hours. Maybe less. Time still didn't make sense here.
Marcus sat up slowly and rolled his shoulders. Pain traveled with him, settled in places it planned to stay. He checked his injuries nothing broken. Cleanly treated. Someone had decided he was worth maintenance.
That thought lingered.
A knock echoed through the room, hard and deliberate. The door opened before he answered.
A man stepped in, tall, lean, scar running from his ear to his collarbone. Gray eyes that never blinked long enough to relax.
"Follow," the man said.
"No name?" Marcus asked.
The man paused, then turned slightly. "Names don't last."
They walked through corridors that looked identical no matter how many turns they took. Men and women passed them wearing neutral clothing, each marked with a small symbol stitched near the collar. Rankings, maybe. Or ownership.
They entered a wide hall filled with screens. Feeds played silently matches, training rooms, labs, simulations that looked like battlefield footage until Marcus noticed the inconsistencies. Faster recovery. Smarter enemies. Controlled chaos.
"Your brother lasted eighteen months," the man said suddenly.
Marcus stopped walking. "You know who I'm looking for."
"We know everyone," the man replied. "Caleb Cole. Recruit level three. Athletic advancement with combat application."
"Where is he?"
The man faced him fully now. "Still inside."
Marcus clenched his jaw. "Then take me to him."
"That depends," the man said calmly. "On how useful you are."
A screen dropped between them.
EVALUATION PATH OPTIONS
• COMBAT DIVISION
• STRATEGIC SPORTS
• WAR SIMULATION
• PSYCHOLOGICAL ADAPTATION
Marcus looked at the list. "You don't waste time."
"We don't waste men," the man corrected. "You choose the path. The path chooses how long you last."
"And if I choose none?"
The man smiled, just barely. "Then Iron City chooses for you."
Another screen flashed.
EXIT REQUEST: DENIED
CITY STATUS: LOCKED
Marcus exhaled slowly.
No gates. No exits. The silence from outside suddenly made sense. Iron City didn't trap people with walls.
It convinced them to stay.
"Combat division," Marcus said.
The man nodded once. "Expected."
They entered an arena ringed with steel platforms. No ropes. No referees. Just cameras and elevated walkways above.
"This isn't a fight," the man said. "It's a test of impulse."
Four opponents stepped into the circle. Military posture. Athletic build. Calm eyes.
Not rookies.
The signal was a light not a sound.
Marcus moved first.
He didn't overcommit. Didn't rush. He let them come. Let training override emotion. Every strike was controlled, economical. Pain flared, but he didn't slow.
One opponent dropped. Then another.
A third feinted. Marcus countered too fast.
The fourth never stood a chance.
Breathing heavy, Marcus straightened as the light shut off.
Above him, screens shifted.
COMBAT SCORE: EXCEEDS STANDARD
MENTAL RESILIENCE: UNDETERMINED
PLACEMENT: UNDER WATCH
The man reappeared beside the arena. "You fight like someone who's already lost something."
Marcus wiped blood from his lip. "I'm not here to win games."
"No," the man said quietly. "You're here to break systems."
A new symbol appeared on Marcus's collar as they walked away.
It wasn't a number.
It was a warning.
That night, in his room, the light dimmed for the first time.
A short message appeared on the wall.
CALeb COLE STILL ACTIVE
LEVEL: RESTRICTED
ACCESS: EARNED, NOT GIVEN
Marcus lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
Iron City hadn't closed behind him.
It had swallowed him whole.
And somewhere inside it, his brother had learned how to survive.