The instant Marx, Valdez, Ren, and Ava stepped into the transport car bound for the hidden coliseum, every digital device they carried went dark. Screens flickered once, then died, as if swallowed by the air itself. Somewhere within the vehicle, a powerful jammer hummed—silent but absolute—rendering even the most hardened technology useless.
Marx frowned deeply as shifting profiles of the contenders flashed across the car's windows and windshield, the glass transforming into living screens. They were not blindfolded, yet they might as well have been. The outside world was erased, replaced by curated images and data they had no choice but to absorb. A persistent, disembodied voice accompanied each profile, droning on with clinical precision. It drilled into Marx's skull, each syllable tightening into a dull, relentless headache.
