The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not complete silence—there’s still the distant whine of machinery, the crackle of comms, the low murmur of voices trying to find their footing again—but compared to the chaos that just tore through the arena, it feels like someone reached up and turned the volume of the universe down by half.
The proto-beast lies where it fell.
Still.
Massive.
Terrifying even in defeat.
Its chest rises once—slow, heavy—then settles as the containment teams lock down its limbs with reinforced binders and field dampeners that hum with a low, electric tension. The smell of scorched energy weapons hangs thick in the air, sharp and metallic, mixed with dust and something more primal—something that reminds me, uncomfortably, of blood and heat and survival.
I stand there in the wreckage, chest heaving, hands hanging loose at my sides, trying to convince my body that it’s allowed to stop moving now.
“Hey!”
A voice cuts through the haze.
I turn.
Security.
Three of them, armored and alert, weapons still trained loosely in my direction like they’re not entirely convinced I’m not part of the problem.
Fair.
One of them lowers his rifle slightly as he approaches.
“You injured?” he asks.
“Define injured,” I say, my voice rough.
He gives me a look.
I glance down at myself.
Dust. Scrapes. A nice collection of bruises forming under the skin.
“Nothing critical,” I add.
He nods once.
“Stay where you are.”
“Not planning on running,” I mutter.
Another team rushes past us toward the far side of the arena, where a cluster of officials are gathered around a man on his knees.
Something about the posture.
The way the guards have him pinned.
My stomach tightens.
I start walking.
“Sir—” the security officer begins.
