The gym in Zone-R5 was no longer just a place for strength — it was a proving ground. Concrete walls reinforced with carbon mesh, flickering fluorescents overhead, and rows of spectators sitting on rusted bleachers, betting silent credits through neural uplinks.
This wasn't just weightlifting. It was combat conditioning, sanctioned by no one, streamed to thousands.
In the center of the room, West adjusted the leather wraps around his knuckles. His body, covered in scars and sweat, looked like it had been carved from war itself — wide shoulders, thick neck, and the calm of someone who'd bled before, and lived.
Across from him stood Tork, the gym's newly crowned alpha. Six-foot-five. Chrome-plated spine. Reinforced joints. A former warehouse hauler turned biotech experiment. His synthetic muscles twitched even while standing still — like a machine testing its power on loop.
"Organic," Tork spat, grinning, a metallic edge to his voice. "You don't belong here."
West said nothing. He was already scanning the room — distance to the walls, position of the cameras, the uneven spot in the flooring behind Tork's right foot. Information. Always information.
A red pulse flashed overhead. Fight time.
Tork moved first — faster than most could process. He didn't just throw a punch; he launched a hydraulic assault. His fist slammed into West's forearm like a steel girder, sending shock through bone. West reeled, muscles screaming.
He's stronger. Much stronger.
Tork came again. A sweeping kick. Elbow feint. Uppercut. West blocked the worst of it, but blood leaked from his lip. His ribs ached.
The crowd was silent — the kind of silence that follows doubt.
Then West ducked.
Not randomly — deliberately, into the blind arc of Tork's overextended punch. In that instant, West slammed his shoulder into the cyborg's side, twisting as he did — destabilizing his balance. Tork stumbled, just for a second. That was enough.
West wrapped his leg around Tork's ankle, pulled down, and used the machine's own weight against him.
The crowd gasped as the metallic body hit the floor — the kind of crash you don't fake.
Tork roared, pushing up. But West was already in motion — elbow to the temple, knee to the exposed collar seal, punch straight into the breathing regulator embedded in Tork's throat.
Always target what they can't reinforce.
Tork grabbed West by the chest and threw him across the ring. West landed hard, ribs crunching. But he smiled through the pain. He was bleeding — but breathing.
Tork charged.
West waited.
At the last second, he sidestepped, grabbed Tork's head, and used the momentum to slam it into the reinforced pillar behind him. Once. Twice. Sparks flew.
The third time, Tork went limp.
Red light blinked again. A cold mechanical voice echoed from the ceiling:
"Victory: Combatant W-13. Match duration: 2 minutes, 47 seconds."
No applause. Just silence and flickering lights.
West stood, chest heaving, hand wrapped around his cracked side.
One of the younger trainees in the shadows whispered to another:
"Is he… augmented?"
"No. That's all real."
As West limped toward the exit, the gym's AI recorded biometric spikes on his file: irregular heart rate, abnormal neural patterning. The system flagged it.
Potential anomaly.
Outside, dusk spread like rust across the sky.
West tightened the straps on his bag and walked off into the dying light. Another victory. Another message.
You don't need steel to win. Just the will to keep getting up.