Jet was standing a step ahead, holding out the X5's cell.
Zach's eyes widened slightly. Jaw tensed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words stuck somewhere between disbelief and something heavier—gratitude he didn't know how to speak.
"W-where did you get this" he stutters
"Thats a trade secret " jet chuckles
tapping the side of the activation cell. "Don't ask questions you don't wanna owe answers for."
The cell hummed louder as they started walking.
The club swallowed them in bass and strobes. Bodies moved in flashes of neon and smoke, sweat and chrome. The deeper they went, the darker it got. The music thinned. The crowd changed.
Less dancers.
More fighters.
Some in Ashwear—scratched and dented.
Some glowing faint in Neon rigs.
One guy's Virex vents pulsed unstable red along his arms.
Jet leaned closer as they moved toward a guarded stairwell hidden behind a flickering holo-ad.
"Tonight's a full-grid match," he said casually. "Fifteen v fifteen. Killhouse"
Zach blinked. "Fifteen?"
Jet grinned. "Big money night."
Zach hesitated.
For a second.
The word fifteen lingered heavier than it should have. Fifteen bodies. Fifteen weapons. No rules.
His shoulders stiffened. A flicker of doubt passed through him — quick, almost invisible.
But then—
Money.
That one word hit different.
Rent. Repairs. Upgrades. Freedom.
If anything in this city could cut through fear, it was credit.
Zach's posture shifted. Subtle. Controlled. His jaw stopped tightening. His breathing steadied. The uncertainty didn't vanish — it folded inward, sharpened.
He rolled his shoulders back.
"Alright," he said quietly.
Jet noticed. Smirked.
The activation cell hummed between them as they moved, Zach carrying it now, the containment field warm against his palms. Jet navigated the crowd ahead of him — not pushing through it, just moving through it the way he moved through everything, like the space rearranged itself to accommodate him without being asked.
The stairwell was hidden behind a Kogashi-7 holo-ad cycling its neural-lace loop on repeat, the chrome-cheeked model smiling her bought smile at nobody in particular. A bouncer stood beside it in unmarked Luxe — no affiliation patches, no visible weapons, which meant the weapons weren't visible. He looked at Jet. Jet looked back. The bouncer stepped aside.
They went down.
Each step pulled the music further away — bass first, then the mid-range, until by the bottom landing all that remained was a faint thud through the ceiling like a second heartbeat two floors above. The stairwell lights were red. Emergency spectrum, the kind that preserved night vision. Zach didn't like what that implied about what happened down here sometimes.
Each step down dulled the music above until only a distant thud remained.
"No rules," Jet continued. "Last team standing wins the pot. No ring-outs. No mercy pauses. If you can move, you fight. If you can't, you get dragged."
"Dragged where?" Zach asked.
"You don't wanna know."
The chamber at the bottom was circular and smelled of ozone and chalk and the particular chemical signature of a dozen armor systems running warm. Low ceiling. No windows. The kind of room that existed specifically to not exist on any official floor plan.
Fighters packed the edges. Zach scanned them without looking like he was scanning them.
A guy in Ashware stood near the far wall — plates bent and re-bent so many times the metal had developed a grain, like stressed wood. The servos in his left knee were misfiring in a faint irregular tick. He was trying not to show that he'd noticed. He had a number written on his forearm in marker, the kind you put there when you're not sure your armor's ID system is going to survive the night.
Two fighters in Glint rigs stood together, neon traces pulsing along their arms in that flashy rhythmic pattern designed to look like power. They were doing the thing Glint users always did — moving slightly more than necessary, letting the light show work for them, making sure the room was watching. The room was watching. That was the point. Zach had fought Glint before. The gap between how dangerous they looked and how dangerous they were was the whole fight.
A woman in Luxe stood alone near the portal, helmet sealed, HUD active behind the visor — he could tell from the faint blue ghost of a display reflecting in the lens. She wasn't performing anything. Just waiting, one hand loose at her side, the other resting on the grip of something holstered at her hip. The body language of someone who'd done this before and stopped finding it interesting.
Then there was the Virex contingent.
Four of them clustered near the portal's edge, armor a riot of illegal modification — acid green vents, deep violet plating scrawled with tags, wiring exposed and re-routed in ways that voided every warranty and probably a few laws of physics. Their rigs pulsed with the unstable red of overclocked stim-systems running hot, chemical heat shimmering off the vents in visible waves. One of them was twitching slightly at the jaw — not nerves, the stim-feedback loop firing a few milliseconds off-sync. They moved like people who had decided the risk calculus on their own bodies wasn't their problem anymore.
Zach looked down at the activation cell in his hands.
Then back up.
In the center of the room, the portal stood — a vertical oval of distorted light, roughly door-shaped, the air around it bent and cold. It didn't shimmer like heat. It shimmered like the absence of heat, like something on the other side was pulling warmth out of the room and not giving it back.
One by one, fighters stepped through and vanished.
Jet appeared at his shoulder. "Corp sponsors love the aesthetic," he said, nodding at the portal. "Old-world coliseum sim. Stone arena, open sky projection, real impact physics." He paused. "Sky glitches at the edges if you look too long. Don't look too long."
"Why?"
"Ruins the vibe."
Jet nudged him. "You good?"
Zach nodded.
They stepped through.
The world snapped.
Stone.
Dust.
A roar like thunder from invisible stands.
They stood inside a massive coliseum — cracked marble pillars, towering walls, sunlight bleeding through projected clouds.
But the sky glitched faintly at the edges.
Simulated.
Fighters began activating their gear all around them.
And that's when Zach understood the hierarchy.
There were tiers.
Tier One — ASHWARE.
Scrap metal pieced together with bent plates, exposed wires, and patched servo motors. Functional but crude. Fighters in Ashware looked slow, awkward, and desperate. It could absorb a hit or two, maybe prevent serious injury, but anything heavy would tear it apart. Cheap, widely available, and utterly unforgiving.
Tier Two — GLINT.
Flashy, lightweight armor. Neon traces ran along arms, legs, and torso, pulsing faintly with each movement. More style than substance. It moved with the wearer but offered only moderate protection. Sparks sometimes flickered along exposed seams. Fighters wore it to intimidate, to look faster and stronger than they really were.
Tier Three — LUXE.
Professional-grade armor. Carbon-weave under reinforced plates, energy conduits along the spine and limbs, HUD fully integrated. Smooth, angular lines that flowed with the wearer's movements. Reliable, agile, and functional. A fighter in Luxe could hold their own, reacting with precision and sustaining prolonged combat.
Tier Four — VIREX.
Illegal, unregistered, and dangerously unstable. Red energy veins pulsed under translucent plating. Implants hummed beneath the skin, amplifying strength, speed, and reflexes. Unpredictable. A fighter could explode into devastating power or fry themselves from one misstep. Virex armor was a thrill—and a gamble—like cybernetic steroids you strapped on.
Tier Five — APEXWEAR.
Not armor in the usual sense. ApexWear adapted to the wearer, reading neural patterns, instinct, and personality. It didn't ask permission. It calculated, shaped itself, and evolved around the fighter, molding plates, conduits, and energy tracers to match style and need. Every ApexWear looked different, even between two equally skilled users. It was alive, reactive, and almost sentient—choosing how to present itself as much as the wearer chose to fight. Legends didn't pick ApexWear. ApexWear picked them
Light flared.
Armor snapped into place.
Virex hums whined aggressively.
Neon flickered sharp pink across someone's shoulders.
Zach stepped toward the prep line and activated the ApexWear X5.
It responded immediately.
Blue light crawled up his legs, forming sleek layered plating.
Carbon panels locked along his torso.
A jette black oni half-mask sealed over his jaw with a soft magnetic snap.
Energy traced down his arms.
Status glyphs flickered across his lenses.
BLUE STEEL MODE — ACTIVE
He flexed his fingers.
The fit was perfect.
Too perfect.
Then the interface expanded.
Windows layered over his vision.
Combat modes.
Environmental sync.
Thermal output control.
Weapon integration.
Overdrive protocols.
HELLSFANGS — LOCKED.
His smile faded.
Settings cascaded down his HUD faster than he could track.
"There's… there's too many," he muttered.
"What?" Jet asked, adjusting his own gear.
"How do you switch modes? How do you—" Zach swiped at floating controls only he could see. "This thing has like fifteen subsystems."
Jet stepped closer. "You just— uh— focus? Or something?"
"'Or something'?" Zach snapped quietly. "Jet."
The countdown echoed across the arena.
00:02:30
Zach tried cycling menus again.
Blueprint diagrams flashed.
Weapon slot: EMPTY
External sync: NOT PAIRED
Blade module: UNAVAILABLE — REQUIRES HOUND OF REAPER ACHIEVMENT UNLOCK
(Hound of Reaper — ApexWear
Achievement/Unlock
Requirement:)
The wearer must survive near-fatal conditions while eliminating 100 enemies (or lethal blows, or kills in the arena).
The threshold doesn't just test skill—it tests endurance, instinct, and mental control.
ApexWear monitors the wearer's vitals and neural stress: the expansion will only unlock if the user's adrenaline, focus, and aggression reach "predatory apex" simultaneously.
His stomach dropped.
He froze.
"…I left my Virex kit upstairs."
Jet stared at him.
"You what?"
"I thought I wouldn't need it."
Across the arena, someone ignited a plasma mace.
Another drew twin shock blades.
Virex boosters flared violently red.
The countdown ticked lower.
00:01:47
Zach flexed his hands.
Blue Steel mode stabilized — sleek, controlled.
But no weapon deployment.
No blade.
No full armor expansion.
Just base form.
He turned slowly to Jet, eyes sharp behind glowing lenses.
"How do I use this?"
Jet hesitated.
For once—
No joke.
No grin.
"…I thought you'd know."
The horn began to charge.
Low.
Echoing.
The gates across the arena started grinding open.
Zach stood there in perfected armor—
Unarmed.
Fifteen opponents waiting beyond stone arches.
And no way back.