FISTBOUND. I Ascend With Every New Upgrade.

Levi stood outside in the cold. The wind tugged at his clothes, the city pressing in like a vice. Neon signs buzzed overhead, dim in the early dusk. The call with Viktor still echoed in his mind, looping over and over like a curse he couldn't lift.

He didn't know how long he stood there, just breathing. Thinking. Feeling the weight of every decision, every broken rib, every promise he'd made to Lilith. He wanted to scream. Instead, he walked.

The streets were quiet, as if even the rats had gone into hiding. Levi passed the old market corner where he and Lilith used to trade junk for food. The vendor stalls were gone now—just hollow boxes and burned tarps. A ghost town inside a city full of ghosts.

When he finally returned home, Lilith was curled up on the couch again, this time not asleep—just watching the static flicker on the old TV. She didn't look at him when he walked in. Just asked, quietly:

"Are you leaving again?"

Levi nodded slowly. "Viktor's coming."

She didn't reply right away. Her fingers toyed with a loose thread in the blanket.

"How long until I don't have to worry anymore?" she asked, almost to herself.

"I'm doing this for you," he said, gently, but even he hated how empty it sounded now.

"I didn't ask you to," she whispered, echoing the words from the night before.

He sat beside her and reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. Her eyes brimmed but didn't spill. "Every time you walk out that door, I wonder if it's the last."

He didn't have an answer. He'd used up all his lies.

They sat in silence until the horn honked outside. Short. Impatient. Viktor's signature.

Levi stood, grabbing his duffel bag. "I'll be back," he said.

"Don't say that unless you mean it."

He paused at the door. Then, without turning, said, "I do."

The black car Viktor drove was old, boxy, and heavily reinforced. Bulletproof glass, steel undercarriage, modified suspension. It rumbled more like a tank than a car. Levi climbed in and shut the door behind him.

Viktor sat in silence for a moment, gloved hands on the wheel, face unreadable beneath his black hat.

"You look like hell," Viktor finally said.

Levi didn't answer.

"You still got your legs though. That's what matters."

Levi stared ahead, jaw clenched.

They drove in silence for a long time, past the familiar parts of Bus Town. Past the red zones. Past the scavenger districts and flooded alleys. Until even Levi didn't recognize the streets anymore.

The air grew thicker. Heavier. The buildings leaned in, tighter, meaner. Broken streetlamps. Shattered glass. Silence hung like a warning.

Finally, they reached a massive gate flanked by two sentry turrets. A red scanner light blinked over the windshield. The car beeped, and the gates slid open with a groan like dying metal.

Levi didn't speak. He knew better.

The compound was deep beneath the surface, an old bunker-turned-arena reserved for the ultra-elite. You didn't fight here for fun. You fought because someone powerful paid for blood.

They pulled into a narrow underground tunnel, lights flickering overhead. Men with guns lined the halls—militia types, hired muscle, armor pieced together from war salvage.

"Stay sharp," Viktor said, glancing sideways at Levi. "This is the high table. Cameras everywhere. One wrong move and they won't wait for applause before burying you."

Levi nodded once.

Inside, the staging room smelled of bleach and rust. A medic checked his vitals—cold hands, colder eyes. A woman handed him a uniform: sleeveless combat top, reinforced gloves, lightweight armor over vital spots. No helmet. They never gave helmets.

Then Viktor returned.

"Your opponent's already waiting."

"Who is it?"

"You'll see."

"Viktor—"

"Don't ask. Just survive."

Levi took a deep breath. Every rib hurt. Every muscle ached. But the fight wasn't in his body—it was in his blood. Always had been.

The elevator hissed open, and the roar hit him like a wave. Not the chaotic scream of street fights or underground brawls. This was different. Richer. Colder.

The arena was built like a coliseum, circular and tight, all steel and black glass. High above, luxury boxes lined the upper ring, shadowed figures sipping wine behind tinted panes. Silent. Watching. Judging.

In the center, Levi stepped into the light.

Across from him, his opponent waited.

Tall. Broad. Clean. No scars. No tattoos. A man built like a soldier but moved like a panther. The kind of fighter who didn't bleed often. His eyes were the only thing not calm—there was a kind of precision in them, like he'd already mapped out Levi's death a hundred ways.

Levi's blood chilled.

A low voice came through the arena speakers. Artificial and hollow. "Combatants ready."

The opponent didn't blink.

"Begin."

The man moved first—fast, inhumanly so.

Levi dodged the first strike, barely. The second caught him in the ribs. Again. The pain exploded. He countered with a short jab, but it was blocked, twisted, reversed. He was thrown to the floor with a slam.

The crowd didn't cheer. No one cheered here.

He rolled, barely avoiding a kick that would've shattered his skull.

Get up. Breathe. Focus.

He remembered Dorian. Remembered the way he'd survived. Not with strength. With desperation.

Levi threw his elbow back, catching the man off guard, then spun with a knee to the gut. It landed. The man staggered back—only slightly—but it was enough.

A rhythm started to build. Not dominance. Not skill. Just survival. But the man kept adapting. Every move Levi threw, he adjusted. Studied. Calculated.

This wasn't a fighter.

It was a test.

Levi's lip bled. His legs wobbled. But he kept moving.

Then, for the first time, the man spoke. Quietly. Calmly. "You're stronger than I expected."

Levi spit blood. "Yeah? You hit like a whisper."

The man smiled faintly. "That's the last joke you'll make."

Then he moved again—faster this time. Smarter. The fight escalated. Blades came out. Hidden, retractable. Illegal.

Viktor had lied.

Levi ducked, barely avoiding a slice to the throat. He felt his arm open up from a glancing cut. Blood sprayed. He fought back with his fists, his elbows, his knees. Every move was raw, unpolished. Desperate.

They were both bleeding now.

Then—the opening.

A faint misstep. A half-second pause.

Levi lunged, using the last of his strength. He drove his fist into the man's jaw, then another to his throat. The man stumbled.

One more hit.

He spun, all weight behind it—and landed a punch that cracked the man's jaw. He dropped.

Silence.

Then—cheers. Quiet. Measured. The sound of money well spent.

Levi stood, panting, vision blurred.

He didn't even see the two guards before they tasered him.

He woke up in a concrete room. No windows. A single camera in the corner. His hands chained. His body broken.

The speaker crackled. Viktor's voice came through.

"Well done, boy. You made it interesting."

"What is this..." Levi muttered, barely conscious.

"Just a little bonus round."

Levi's heart pounded.

"You're not done yet."