"Oh my God, I can't wait to see his entrance!"
Cleopatra Damiano's voice rang out above the roar of the crowd, her fingers digging into the metal railing until her knuckles whitened.
"It gives me chills all over—that moment right before he appears? Absolutely thrilling!"
"Sometimes I wonder if these fights are even fair," Jenia Batwa muttered, crossing her arms.
"Why pit a legend like Madanga against some nobody? This kid doesn't stand a chance."
"Exactly!"
Liona's complaint was sharp with disappointment.
"We paid good money for this!"
The sky began to shift—a sickly, dark crimson bleeding across the heavens like a wound opening in the atmosphere.
The air grew thick, metallic. Spectators tilted their heads back, mouths falling open as blood-red clouds rolled across the arena in impossible waves.
Then Madanga struck.
The kick connected with Delvin's chest—a thunderous impact that drove the air from his lungs in one violent rush.
His body lifted off the ground, weightless for a heartbeat, before he crashed fifteen yards back into the dirt.
Pain exploded through his ribs. Copper flooded his mouth as blood spattered across his lips.
His vision blurred. Through the haze, his health bar flickered in his peripheral vision—fifty percent. Half gone. From one hit.
When the crimson finally drained from the sky, returning it to its natural blue, Madanga stood untouched in the arena's center.
Delvin—fighting as Alvin the Trickster in this cursed game—knelt in the dust, each breath a jagged knife in his chest.
"Morris!"
Nathaniel's voice dripped with amusement.
"Are you not going to bet on Alvin the Trickster? What was it you called him last time?"
He paused for effect, grinning.
"Ah yes—"Alvin, my Trickster"!"
Morris's face flushed red.
"Hell no! You see this? This match is rigged!"
"Stop! Stop!"
Delooker Dangstar's voice cut through the arena like a whip crack.
The referee strode between the two fighters, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust.
He turned to face Madanga, and even from a distance, Delvin could see the steel in his eyes.
"Madanga, you have violated the Level One Rule by attacking your challenger during your entrance."
His voice boomed across the stadium, silencing even the most vocal spectators.
"I therefore declare Alvin the Trickster the winner of this challenge!"
The crowd erupted—but not in celebration. A wave of disapproval crashed through the stands, angry and venomous.
"The pairing's wrong! We demand a refund!"
Someone bellowed from the upper rows.
"REFUND!"
The chant began, spreading like wildfire.
Plastic cups flew through the air. The sharp crack of breaking wood echoed as spectators kicked at benches.
Stones and rotten fruit arced through the sky, splattering across the arena floor in pulpy explosions.
"REFUND! REFUND! REFUND!"
The world lurched.
Delvin gasped as his consciousness snapped back—pulled like elastic into his real body.
He was in his apartment again, sitting in his chair, heart hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled as he lifted them, half-expecting to see blood.
'That was so strange,' he thought, his pulse still racing.
'Two bodies. One for the game, one real. How is that even possible?'
He blinked, and the hologram menu materialized before his eyes—translucent blue text hovering in the air.
His finger shook slightly as he pressed the balance option.
400.0 Data Units.
His eyes widened. A grin spread slowly across his face.
"I won."
---
Saturday evening arrived with golden light slanting through Delvin's window. He stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his new shirt—one of the pieces he'd bought for work but never worn. His reflection looked back at him: presentable, almost confident.
He was waiting for George. The dinner invitation.
Minutes crawled by. Delvin paced to the window, checked his hair again, sat down, stood back up. His stomach fluttered with something between excitement and nerves.
Then—knock knock knock.
His heart jumped. 'That's him.'
Delvin forced himself to wait. Count to five. 'Don't seem desperate.' He cleared his throat and called out, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Come in!"
The door squeaked open—that familiar, rusty protest. George stepped inside, and Delvin couldn't help but notice the easy confidence in his stride.
George wasn't dressed fancy—just clean, casual—but he carried himself like someone who'd never had to worry about fitting in.
"How are you doing, George?" Delvin extended his hand, keeping his smile warm but not too eager.
"Great, brother!"
George's grin was infectious, his eyes bright with genuine excitement.
"You, ready for dinner?"
Delvin let a few seconds pass. Casual. Relaxed.
"Yes, please. Lead the way."
---
Fifteen minutes later, Delvin's breath caught in his throat.
Grandma Beatrice's house rose before them like something from another era—or another tax bracket entirely.
Cobblestones and marble created intricate patterns beneath their feet.
The architecture was distinctly twenty-first century European: arched windows, ornate molding, a solidity that spoke of old money.
George opened the door and glanced back, catching the awe written plainly across Delvin's face. His grin widened—Cheshire cat satisfied.
'He never mentioned any of this,' Delvin thought. 'Not once.'
"Come in," George said softly, a note of pride warming his voice. "Welcome to Grandma Beatrice's house."
"Thank you."
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Delvin stepped across the threshold into cool, fragrant air—something floral, expensive.
He paused immediately, waiting for George to lead. As they moved through the entrance hall, Delvin couldn't stop his eyes from roaming: the height of the ceilings, the crown molding, artwork that probably cost more than a year's rent.
He'd never been inside a place like this. Only observed them from the outside, distant and untouchable.
The orphanage. The university. Those were the only large buildings he'd ever truly known.
They entered the sitting room, and Delvin's heart rate kicked up again.
Four maroon leather sofas formed a conversation area around a glass coffee table edged in rich wood.
A matching couch faced north, toward a massive smart TV mounted on the wall. And on one of those sofas sat an elegant elderly woman, her posture perfect despite her age.
She looked up, adjusting her white-framed spectacles. Delvin guessed early seventies—her skin still surprisingly taut, barely wrinkled except around her eyes and mouth.
When she smiled, those wrinkles deepened into dimples that transformed her face.
"Hello."
Her voice was warm honey over steel.
"You must be Delvin. Welcome to our humble home."
Her eyes locked onto his—sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
Delvin felt the weight of her scrutiny like a physical thing. This was a test. A first impression that mattered.
He met her gaze steadily, searching for genuine warmth beneath the calculation. He found both. His most charming smile rose naturally to his lips.
"Thank you, Grandma Beatrice. Your home is absolutely gorgeous."
Something flickered in her expression—approval, perhaps.
"Thank you, dear. Please, sit."
She gestured to a sofa positioned diagonal to hers.
Delvin moved carefully, aware of George settling beside him, watching the exchange with quiet interest.
Grandma Beatrice's eyes followed Delvin's every movement.
'He's not what I expected,' she thought, and Delvin caught the faint surprise in her expression.
'Handsome. Polite. Genuine.'
Then—movement from the east wing.
Brenda appeared, and the air in the room shifted.
Her dark, curly hair caught the light, gleaming like polished obsidian.
Every element of her makeup was perfectly placed, enhancing rather than masking. She moved with unconscious grace, her face lit with anticipation—
Until she saw Delvin.
Her hand flew to her hair in an automatic, feminine gesture. Then she froze. Completely still, her eyes wide, lips parted in a soundless gasp.
'Dude!'
Zauzo's voice exploded in Delvin's head.
'I love her! I'm in love! You have to let me talk to her—just let me—'
'Are you insane?'
Delvin's internal voice was sharp with panic.
'Yes! Madly, completely insane about her! It's love at first sight, I swear—'
'Behave yourself, Zauzo,' Delvin hissed mentally.
'You're going to make me look like an idiot.'
'I will fight you over her.'
Zauzo assured Delvin in a cold tone.
But Brenda still hadn't moved. She stood frozen in the doorway, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, her eyes locked on Delvin like she'd seen a ghost—or something far more dangerous.