Marcus didn't sleep well that night. Not because of the pain in his ribs or the soreness in his arms. Not because of the bruises forming along his torso.
It was the feeling.
Eyes. Watching. Always watching.
Even in the supposed quiet of his room, the glow of the city crept through the vents and seams of the walls. Cameras weren't enough. The city had sensors, hidden microphones, movement detectors. Every sound he made, every twitch of a finger, every restless shift in the mattress was cataloged. Iron City didn't just see you couldn't hide from it. You existed for it.
Morning came with a soft chime that sounded more like a warning than an alarm. Marcus sat up, stretched carefully, and surveyed the room. Nothing had changed. The thin mattress, the dull light, the faint hum of the walls—everything normal. Everything perfectly normal.
Except the mark.
The symbol on his collar had shifted again overnight, darkening, more angular, sharper. It wasn't a number. It wasn't a ranking. It was a warning.
He dressed quickly, moving through the corridors like someone who had learned how to walk through shadows. Every corner held the potential for an observer, every intersection could reveal an enemy or a test.
When he reached the lower tiers, the whispers started immediately. Fighters moved aside, eyes down, mouths tight. They weren't friendly. They weren't hostile. They were cautious.
"He's flagged," someone muttered, just loud enough for Marcus to hear.
"High-risk," another added.
And somewhere, cameras angled subtly to capture every reaction, recording gestures, microexpressions, heart rates, everything.
Marcus didn't flinch. He never had. He couldn't.
He moved to the training pits, where the usual chaos of preparation was in motion. Fighters sparred, lifted weights, practiced precision strikes. Everything was under surveillance, and Marcus could feel it: every camera, every sensor, every pair of eyes was tuned to him.
A trainer approached, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning a screen mounted on his wrist.
"Cole," he said, voice neutral, almost flat. "Your performance yesterday caught attention. Observation has increased. They're interested in your responses under stress."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "And that means?"
"It means," the trainer said carefully, "you don't get mistakes. Not here. Not anywhere in the city."
The words didn't scare him. They shouldn't. But they were heavy. Iron City didn't need to threaten. Observation was the threat.
A bell rang. The signal for matches. Marcus moved to the arena, tension coiling in his stomach. The pit today was different. Smaller. Confined. Enclosed with thick metal panels and high glass barriers. The audience wasn't cheering this time. There wasn't an audience. Only a row of shadowed figures in elevated booths, their features obscured by darkness and light reflection.
The opponent was waiting, calm, focused, a mirror of controlled precision. Marcus stepped into the pit and realized something immediately: this wasn't about skill. It was about reaction, adaptation, endurance. Every movement, every strike would be scrutinized for weakness, hesitation, or unpredictability.
The fight began.
Marcus moved carefully, every strike deliberate, every step measured. He tested his opponent, observing responses, noting rhythm. The opponent reacted instantly, blocking, countering, forcing Marcus to adjust in real time. This wasn't a fight. This was a test a live calculation of his ability to adapt under observation.
Minutes passed. Sweat stung his eyes. Muscles burned. Blood began to trail from a cut along his temple. The fight stretched beyond skill into endurance and mental fortitude. Every punch he avoided, every strike he landed, became data points. Every feint, every reaction, cataloged.
Then, mid-fight, Marcus sensed it. A subtle adjustment in the environment. Slight changes in lighting. A vibration underfoot he hadn't noticed before. The city was intervening not overtly, not obviously but guiding outcomes, subtly modifying conditions.
He had to move faster. Think faster. Adapt faster.
Finally, the light above the pit flickered and went out. A voice, filtered and mechanical, echoed around the arena.
MATCH TERMINATED.
OBSERVATION COMPLETE.
CATEGORY: UNPREDICTABLE RESPONSE.
MONITOR CLOSELY.
Marcus stood in the silence, chest heaving, vision blurred with sweat and focus. He realized something chilling. The fight hadn't been for victory. It hadn't even been for ranking. It had been for information.
The city was learning him.
And every corner, every shadow, every pair of eyes in Iron City would now act on what it had learned.
He left the pit slowly, carefully. Other fighters avoided him, sensing the shift, sensing the mark. Even the trainers gave him more space than usual. Marcus understood now: he was no longer just a participant. He was a variable.
Back in his room that night, he lay on the thin mattress and traced the red angular mark on his collar. It seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. He didn't know if it was the city watching or something inside him.
Either way, he felt the weight of it.
Marcus closed his eyes. Somewhere, his brother had already felt this pressure. Somewhere, Caleb had learned the same lesson.
In Iron City, no one escaped the gaze.
And Marcus Cole intended to use that gaze to his advantage.