SURVIVOR TUNNEL…
"…Now…" she whispered. "…That's a much better first question."
For half a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Shirley's grip remained locked around both of her wrists, pinning them above her head against the cold wall.
"…Answer me." The woman smiled.
"No." Shirley responded.
She suddenly drove the back of her head into Shirley's forehead.
Pain exploded through his skull. "…Ow!"
His grip loosened for the briefest instant.
That was all she needed.
She twisted sideways with impossible speed, slipping one wrist free before driving her knee toward his ribs.
Shirley barely turned in time.
The strike glanced off his side instead of sinking into it, he stumbled backward.
The woman landed lightly on both feet.
Without hesitating, she snatched her fallen dagger from the floor.
Then the second. She flipped both blades into a reverse grip.
Steel glimmered beneath the flickering hallway lights.
"…Much better," she said quietly.
Shirley rubbed his forehead. "If only I had my cleavers…"
"What? You gonna chop me up?" She vanished.
Shirley's eyes widened.
She covered the distance in an instant.
The first dagger flashed toward his throat.
He jerked backward.
The blade sliced through a few strands of hair instead.
The second dagger came immediately afterward.
Lower, toward his stomach.
Shirley caught her wrist with both hands, his grasp tightly imbued with a bit of Strength Presence. The impact echoed through the hallway.
She smiled. "…You're fast."
"So are you." Shirley gave a small grin.
She twisted.
Not to escape, but to force him off balance. Her foot hooked behind his ankle.
Shirley felt himself tipping.
He released her wrist before she could drag him completely down.
Both of them jumped backward at the same time.
Silence.
Only their breathing filled the corridor. Then, they charged again.
Steel flashed.
Shirley ducked beneath one slash.
Blocked another with his forearm before redirecting her wrist into the wall.
One dagger struck concrete.
Sparks flew. He reached for it…but he was too slow.
She spun with surprising flexibility. Her heel crashed into his shoulder.
The kick sent him stumbling into a row of dented lockers.
Metal groaned loudly.
The woman didn't stop. She attacked relentlessly.
Left dagger, right dagger. High, low.
Every strike flowed into the next like water.
Shirley couldn't throw a punch. Every opening disappeared before he could take it.
Instead, he defended.
Redirect, step, duck, grab, release. Again. Again. And again.
"…You don't fight to kill," she observed between strikes.
"You noticed?" Shirley said.
"I noticed you're holding back," she responded
"…So are you."
She laughed.
"…Good." Suddenly she drove both daggers straight downward.
Not at Shirley, at the floor.
The blades buried themselves into the wooden boards.
Shirley blinked. "…What are you—"
She kicked the hilts. Both daggers launched upward. She caught them midair, crossed them, then slashed.
Shirley instinctively leaned backward.
The crossed blades skimmed across the front of his prison shirt, tearing the fabric open.
"…Close." She lunged again.
Shirley finally found his chance. As her right hand extended, he trapped her wrist.
Rotated underneath it. His shoulder slammed into her chest.
Both of them crashed through a half-open doorway.
Rows of battered metal lockers surrounded them.
Benches lined the center of the room.
Bandages. Medical supplies. Discarded uniforms. Weapons.
The changing room.
The woman glanced toward another heavy steel door at the far end.
Above it, "SURVIVORS ONLY."
Shirley followed her eyes. "…Tucker…" he thought to himself.
He immediately started toward the door.
The woman moved first. She shoved him hard across the room.
Shirley stumbled into a locker.
The sound echoed. Both of them froze.
The steel door slowly creaked open.
Footsteps, someone was coming.
The woman reacted instantly.
She grabbed the front of Shirley's uniform before he could protest.
"…Hey—"
She yanked him sideways.
Both of them squeezed into one of the tall storage lockers.
Darkness. The space was impossibly tight.
Their shoulders pressed together.
Shirley's back flattened awkwardly against the cold metal.
The woman stood inches away.
Close enough that he could hear every steady breath she took.
"…Seriously?" Shirley whispered.
"…Shh." The woman said.
The locker vents offered only thin slits to see through.
Outside…the survivor's door opened completely.
Tucker stepped into the room.
His prison uniform had been exchanged for black cuffed sweatpants, and a shirt that he had removed. His physique could be seen showing the couple of battles he had seen, his upper-body was moderately lean.
In his hands…he slowly turned over a weapon, testing its weight.
His hands stood steady.
He took one long breath, then dropped the weapon.
Then sound of it hitting the floor echoed through the room.
He tried to convince himself he wasn't afraid.
It wasn't working.
A guard appeared behind him. "…You're up."
Tucker swallowed. "…Already…?"
The guard nodded toward the tunnel leading to the arena. "The crowd's waiting."
Tucker looked once toward the empty room.
"…Shirley…Micheal…this is for the both of you."
Then…
Without another word…he walked through the doorway. The gaurd followed slowly after him.
Toward Fight Night, toward the arena.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind him.
The echoes lingered in the locker long after he was gone.
SURVIVOR CHANGING ROOM…
"Are you insane?!" Shirley shouted.
He shoved against her with all his strength. The old locker groaned violently.
The rusted door tore clean off its hinges.
Both of them tumbled out onto the concrete floor, Shirley landing directly on top of her.
"…Ow." She said.
He immediately pushed himself upright.
"I have to stop him." He glanced toward the steel door Tucker had disappeared through. "This could go horribly wrong."
He spun to run.
Something grabbed his ankle.
Shirley looked down.
The woman was still lying on the floor, one hand wrapped firmly around his heel. "…Wait."
She looked almost offended. "You landed on me."
A pause. "…At least help me up."
Shirley let out an exhausted sigh. "…Seriously?"
He turned back and offered her his hand. "…Fine."
The moment she grabbed his hand, Shirley was ripped forward.
"…What the—?!" He hit the floor with a thud.
Before he could recover, she swung one leg over him and pinned his shoulders beneath her knees.
She grinned triumphantly. "…Got you, Beaupre."
Shirley groaned. "My name is Shirley."
He struggled beneath her. "And I'd really appreciate it if you got off me. My friend's about to fight for his life!"
She ignored the second half entirely.
Instead, she leaned down, studying his face with open curiosity.
For the first time…Shirley really saw her.
She couldn't have been much older than him.
Her pale skin had been darkened by the relentless prison sun.
Deep blue eyes watched him with endless curiosity.
Straight black hair framed her face, soft bangs falling just above her eyes.
A tiny mole rested beneath her left cheek.
She wore the same worn prison uniform as everyone else…yet Shirley recognized her immediately.
"…You…" She tilted her head. "…You're the girl from the ring." "The second fight."
She smiled wider. "I won."
"…You killed him." Shirley said.
She shrugged. "He would've killed me."
Shirley couldn't argue with that.
She leaned closer. "…Beaupre."
She rolled the word around in her mouth like she was tasting it. "…That's a strange name."
"It's my real name." Shirley said.
"I know." She said.
She smiled, "…How does someone get one?"
Shirley blinked. "…What?"
"You know exactly what I mean." Her expression softened. "Who gave it to you?"
For a long moment…Shirley didn't answer.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Back to Micheal.
The man who had shattered everything he believed about the world.
The man who had revealed that SOB442 wasn't a name…it was nothing but a label.
A government abbreviation. Project UJO.
A system that erased identities and replaced them with codes. "…A friend."
Shirley finally said. "His name was Micheal."
The woman listened intently.
"He figured out the truth." Shirley looked down at his own hands. "My name wasn't always Shirley. It used to be SOB442. Just like everyone else."
Her eyes widened. "…I knew it."
She suddenly sprang off him. "No way…"
She began pacing excitedly. "I knew something was wrong!"
She spun back toward him.
"So…" She pointed at herself, "…Does that mean I have a real name too?"
Shirley stood, brushing the dust from his clothes. "…Probably."
She stared. "…Probably?"
"The government would know." He shrugged. "You'd need someone with access to the records."
She gasped.
"…Are you one?"
"…No."
"…Aw."
She crossed her arms dramatically. "…Then we're both unlucky."
Shirley chuckled despite himself.
"…What's your name…or code?"
She immediately straightened. "TR241."
Shirley rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"…TR…" He pretended to think much harder than he actually was. "…Train."
Silence.
She stared at him. "…Train?"
"…Yeah. Because TR." Shirley said.
Another pause. "…That's awful." TR241 said.
Shirley burst into laughter.
She pouted. "I refuse to be called Train."
"…Fair enough." He smiled. "Help me stop my friend from getting himself killed…and we'll figure out a real name together."
Her entire expression changed.
The pout disappeared instantly. "…Really?"
"Really." Shirley said.
She pointed at him dramatically. "…Deal!"
Then, almost under her breath, she whispered with childlike excitement, "…I've always wanted a cooler name."
Shirley smiled. "…She's weird…" A grin slowly spread across his face. "…But she's not a bad person."
Suddenly, a deafening roar shook the changing room.
The walls vibrated.
The crowd outside erupted into thunderous screams.
The announcer's voice echoed faintly through the concrete.
The next match…was beginning.
Shirley's smile vanished. "Tucker."
Without another word…both of them sprinted toward the arena.
THE RING…
The music died.
One by one, the arena lights blinked out.
The laughter. The gambling. The shouting.
Everything faded into an eerie silence.
A single spotlight descended from the ceiling.
It landed on one corner of the ring.
Tucker.
He stood perched alone atop the corner pad.
Bandages wrapped tightly around both fists. His breathing was slow. Measured. His hands trembled anyway. He clenched them. Forced them still.
Across the ring…another spotlight appeared.
Long-Brow CH2.
He hadn't moved an inch.
He stood with both feet planted firmly against the canvas.
His prison uniform remained untouched except for a thick streak of blue paint brushed across the collar.
His unusually long eyebrows cast thin shadows over calm, unreadable eyes.
No smile. No anger. No excitement. Only patience.
His gaze never left Tucker.
Not once.
The silence somehow felt louder than the music ever had.
Then,
"LADIES…"
The announcer's voice exploded through the arena.
"…AND GENTLEMEN OF MYNISTRIA!"
The audience erupted.
Thousands slammed their fists against tables.
Boots stomped against concrete. The floor itself seemed to shake.
"OUR NEXT MATCH…"
He stretched the words out, feeding off the anticipation.
"…HAS BEEN BET ON MORE THAN ANY OTHER FIGHT THIS MONTH, ALTHOUGH IT WAS ONLY ANNOUNCED TODAY!"
Cheers. Laughter. People screamed names from every direction.
"On one side…"
A spotlight engulfed Tucker.
"…A BOY WHO SHOULD HAVE NEVER SET FOOT INSIDE THIS PRISON!"
Scattered laughter echoed around the arena.
"Fresh meat!"
"A child!"
"He won't last a minute!"
The announcer grinned.
"…THE NEWCOMER…TUCKER!"
A handful of cheers. Far more laughter.
SURVIVOR TUNNEL…
"Move!"
Shirley shoved past another pair of prisoners.
TR241 stayed surprisingly close beside him. "You weren't kidding…"
She ducked beneath someone's swinging elbow. "…This won't be easy."
"Welcome to Fight Night!" Shirley muttered sarcastically.
Another roar echoed from the arena.
His stomach sank. "…Please don't start yet…"
THE RING…
The announcer slowly turned.
"…AND IN THE OPPOSITE CORNER…"
Silence returned. It spread like a disease. Even the drunken prisoners stopped talking.
The announcer smiled.
"…Worth…"
A pause. "…Sixteen." Another pause. "…Million."
The arena exploded.
"LONG-BROW!"
"CH2!"
"END HIM!"
"MAKE IT QUICK!"
The crowd shook the arena with its chanting. Long-Brow didn't react, not even slightly.
His breathing never changed.
His eyes never blinked.
He simply watched Tucker.
Waiting.
THE ARENA FLOOR…
Michonne pushed through the sea of bodies. "Shirley!"
No answer.
Tongue spun around beside her, trying to look over the crowd. "…Too many hairs!"
EBS stood on her toes. "I can't see anything!"
Another wave of prisoners shoved them backward.
The ring looked farther away than ever.
"Tucker…" EBS whispered. "…Please don't die."
SURVIVOR CORRIDOR…
"There!" TR241 pointed ahead.
The exit. Light poured through the doorway.
Shirley didn't slow down.
He sprinted. Bursting through the final corridor, only to slam directly into a wall of spectators. "…Move!"
Nobody listened.
Everyone was watching the ring. Shirley shoved harder.
Every second mattered.
THE RING…
The announcer raised both arms.
"Tonight…" His grin widened. "…ONE OF THESE MEN…WALKS OUT."
He pointed toward Tucker.
"…The other…" His finger shifted toward Long-Brow. "…LEAVES IN A BAG!"
The crowd erupted into a frenzy.
"TUCKER!"
"CH2!"
"DEATH!"
"DEATH!"
"DEATH!"
The chants blended together until they became one endless roar.
Tucker swallowed. His heartbeat pounded inside his ears.
Across from him…Long-Brow finally moved.
Just one step.
Slow, deliberate.
The wooden platform beneath his foot creaked.
Nothing more.
Yet Tucker instinctively tightened his fists.
The pressure in the arena became suffocating.
CROWD…
"There!" Michonne spotted Shirley. "Shirley!"
He looked up. Finally.
Their eyes met across hundreds of prisoners. Neither could reach the other.
TR241 pushed beside him. "We're too late…"
Shirley stared toward the ring. "…No…" He whispered. "…Not yet."
THE RING…
The referee stepped between the two fighters.
He looked toward Tucker.
Then toward Long-Brow CH2.
"…Ready?"
Neither answered.
They simply stared at one another. The referee slowly backed away. The entire arena held its breath.
The announcer lowered his microphone.
No music, no cheering, no voices.
Only silence.
Then,
The bell rang.