As the night wore on, Mark kept gncing at the screen, watching each brutal match unfold. He told himself he wouldn’t get distracted, that he’d be different than Snap, but he couldn’t ignore the nerves creeping up on him like a cold sweat. He took a deep breath, flexing his fingers and staring at them as if he might see something there. He heard one of the women call out his name and suddenly it was his time to go.

  He stood, shoulders back, chin up, his mind racing through a thousand possibilities of how things could go down. He followed a burly man down a narrow hallway that felt too long, like it was stretching out into infinity. He was led to the arena, right into the center of the action. As he entered, taking in the massive space, he couldn't help how it made him feel small for a second. The ring was enormous, like a battlefield designed to break you before you even got hit.

  It had to be 100 yards across, as vast as a football field under the Monday night lights, with random pilrs and loose rocks tossed around like a giant's toys strewn about. Everything here was set up to test his mettle, and the stakes were almost as high as his odds.

  The announcer looked down at Mark from a perch above the ring, his voice echoing through the space as he yelled out the name Mark had given: Seven. Mark turned his head just in time to see another figure appear on the other side of the ring.

  She had a swagger about her and looked like she knew this pce inside out. She was wrapped up in a sleek exosuit with two high-tech-looking guns strapped in her hands. Clearly a fair-skinned woman, she sported short bck hair and a punk rock attitude to match. “Who wants to see me wipe the floor with this newbie?” she shouted, her voice amplified by the suit's speakers and dripping with contempt. “First night here and he decides to do Gold? I am gonna murder this bastard.” The crowd roared in response, a tidal wave of excitement and bloodthirsty anticipation.

  Mark said nothing, letting his actions speak louder than words. He slipped into a boxer's stance, light on his feet, fists up, eyes steady. The announcer smiled at the tension in the air and then let it snap like a rubber band, shouting the magic word to get things rolling: “Fight!”

  The sound was like a starter pistol, and the punk chick wasted no time. She unleashed a furious barrage of energy bsts with both guns aimed straight at Mark. He moved like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment, dodging to the side as if even the air itself couldn't touch him.

  He combat-rolled behind a pilr, letting it take the brunt of her assault, then quickly grabbed a giant rock as big as a small car. From behind his cover, he used the rock as a shield, holding it up easily with just one arm, his strength on full dispy. In a fsh, he sprang into action, leaping high into the air toward his opponent like a hawk diving for its prey.

  He was out for blood, and every move he made was like a promise to himself: I will win this. Hidden behind the massive rock, he came down with a vengeance and threw the stone with the force of a cannon. It struck the punk woman with the weight of a freight train, smashing her hard into the arena wall. She was stunned.

  Mark could almost taste the victory. He rushed over while she was still reeling, the crowd’s excitement a dull roar in his ears. He got up close and personal, not giving her a chance to recover as he rained down a brutal storm of punches. Each blow nded like a sledgehammer, driving her deeper into the wall, crushing her exosuit bit by bit until it looked like a crumpled soda can.

  Her suit sparked and hissed, systems failing as he ripped away the metal like it was made of paper. He caught her by the throat, lifting her clean off the ground, her feet dangling helplessly. “Forfeit!” Mark barked, his voice booming with the power and confidence of a man who’d just conquered the world. She cwed at his hand, her face a mask of defiance and pain. Struggling for breath and with no other option, she gred at him as she lost consciousness. Mark let her limp body drop to the dirt, triumphant.

  “SEVEN WINS!”

  As Mark made his way out of the arena, a flood of onlookers immediately surrounded him, a whirlwind of buzzing voices and eager faces. Fighters, bookies, spectators, and hustlers—all jostling for his attention and a piece of his newfound fame. He was their underdog hero, and each of them wanted a moment with him before he stepped back into the ring.

  They threw offers, questions, and praises his way, but Mark waved them off with a grin, his focus sharp as he went to collect his prize. As he grabbed the winnings, the sheer weight of it felt satisfying in his hands. “Are there any more Gold fights tonight?” he asked, eager to ride the wave of his victory and push himself further. The crew nodded, and he couldn’t hide the excitement that fred inside him.

  “Great. Then what are the odds?” he said, counting through the stacks of cash. His total was a cool 31,190 dolrs, more than enough to double down on himself. Donavan's smirk looked like a seal of approval as he replied, “4 to 1 this time.” Mark fshed a smile, every inch the confident gambler, and put in everything he had just won, letting his instincts and ambition lead the way.

  “Your take-home will be 121,017 dolrs after we take our cut,” Donavan assured him. With the bet pced, Mark swaggered back to the fighter area, noticing how the entire atmosphere had shifted. The fighters, who had been skeptical and standoffish before, were now all nods and smiles, some cpping him on the back as he passed.

  There was a noticeable change in the way they treated him now. He had made quite an impression by showing restraint, by proving he didn’t need to kill to cim victory—even with the odds stacked against him. They respected that.

  He felt like a heavyweight champion walking through his home gym. He dropped into a chair, his heart still pounding with adrenaline, and looked around at the once-doubting crowd of fighters. Women and men alike were trying to strike up conversations, offering tips, and even asking about his training methods.

  He kicked back, rexing while the energy of the room buzzed around him like an electric storm. The minutes crawled by, feeling like hours as his mind pyed through the scenarios of the next fight—how he'd counter, how he'd win. He tugged his wrists and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the anticipation surge through him like a caffeinated rush.

  The sounds of the other matches rumbled all around, the echo of bodies hitting the floor and the primal cheers of the crowd rattling through his bones. He opened his eyes and watched the monitors flicker with wild action, but he found it hard to focus on anything but his own impending match.

  Time went by in a slow-motion blur, but he didn’t mind the wait. He knew he was ready. He felt the familiar itch of the underdog, the thrill of lining up for the next big round. It was nearly an hour before he finally heard his name called again. He stood up, a smile pulling across his face as the adrenaline kicked up another notch. Just before he stepped away, he shook the tension from his arms, feeling more alive than he had in months. A booming voice called out his number, and the rush of excitement hit him like a bst of cold wind.

  “Let’s get paid.”