The flourishing Central Belt of Civilization.
On Earth's grandest stadium, hundreds of thousands have gathered. It's the final match—the culmination of the season. Gladiatorial combat is no longer just a sport; it's the planet's most sacred spectacle. Fear, doubt, morality—they don't matter anymore. People come for the thrill, for the blood, for that ancient echo of valor dressed in chrome and neon.
This isn't sport. It's ceremony.
An epochal ritual where a machine's victory means more than entertainment. It's logic defeating passion. Precision eclipsing chaos.
No humans enter this arena. They were replaced long ago.
The combatants are androids—flawless, enhanced, merciless. Their movements are ballet in armor. Every arc of a blade, a study in engineering beauty. No fear. No pain.
Their suits are battle-forged: armored, graceful, lethal. They fight with cold weapons only—swords and knives that sing when they clash, like the voice of death scraped raw. But even the worst wounds heal instantly: internal systems repair the damage as if it never existed.
These duels are more than bloodsport. They are sermons. Testaments. Proof that the children of humanity have grown stronger than their makers. Cleaner. Faster. Worthier.
They are the gods of the new world.
The arena roars. The crowd is a beast, writhing with hunger. Fighters burst into the ring—launched like thunderbolts by magnetic catapults. Titans descending from the sky.
The clash begins.
Steel screams through the air. Sparks scatter like falling stars. The stands erupt in primal delight. Hearts race.
If they had hearts, one spectator thinks, they'd be on fire.
But ours… only tremble.
"In this bout, with a final score of six to four—victory goes to Armaros!" the announcer bellows. His voice splits the sky like a hammerstroke.
The stadium explodes.
Flags. Screams. Frenzy.
The arena stills—for one breath.
And the next battle begins.
**
In the elite section, a diplomat from Mercury, the Inner Belt, sits beneath a canopy of silence. Around him—an armored perimeter of security. Quiet giants in tailored suits. His seat bristles with embedded scanners and monitors. Every glance is tracked. Every twitch analyzed.
Then—disruption.
From the left stand, a man bursts forward—disheveled, wild-eyed, furious.
"That's my seat!" he yells. "I paid more than I did for my damn aerocar! You think I'm backing down? You'll have to drag me out!"
Security reacts instantly. Two men block the aisle.
"There's been a mistake," says the lead guard, voice firm as steel. "These seats are reserved for diplomatic delegation. Produce your ticket."
The crowd turns. Someone starts recording on a hololens. A scandal brews.
And at that moment, a woman sits down next to the diplomat.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice velvet and low. There's something strange in her calm—like she commands the eye of the storm. "I believe this is my seat."
"I thought my security was seated here…" the diplomat frowns, but doesn't finish. A kitten leaps into his lap.
"What the—?" He freezes, eyes locking with the tiny creature's. And then—he smiles. Not just politely. Genuinely. For the first time that evening.
"Pure charm."
"That's his name," the woman laughs. "Charm. He usually doesn't trust people. Seems to like you."
The cat. The woman. The warmth.
Soft invasion. Who are you, stranger?
One of the guards scans her. The scanner pings softly. Silence.
"Clear," the guard confirms, returning to position.
The woman doesn't miss a beat.
"Judging by the security detail, you must be someone important. Or wealthy. Or both?"
The diplomat smiles, almost shyly.
"And you don't seem like just a spectator. You sit too confidently. Your eyes don't flinch. You're used to attention."
"Sometimes a little too much," she says, meeting his gaze without blinking.
He's about to respond—when another man appears in the aisle.
"Marina! There you are. We're late."
She sighs. Regret flickers in her eyes—but her smile grows softer.
"I'm afraid I must go," she says. Her voice has dropped, turned almost intimate.
"Will I… see you again?" the diplomat asks. He seems surprised by his own question. But in his voice, something stirs—something unpolished. Something real.
She tilts her head, a trace of mystery in her expression.
"Maybe. If you pay close enough attention."
The kitten leaps from his lap like a shadow, trotting after her.
And for a split second, the diplomat could swear it winked at him.
The stadium erupts in wild ovation.
But he doesn't hear it.
He sits frozen, pulse still racing. A strange ache unfurls inside his chest.
Something brushed past him—
And he didn't hold on.
**
The Stranger and Her Shadow
They walk through the parking deck with purpose—swift, certain, as if following invisible marks on a stage. Her heels click on concrete, sharp as cues. Around them sprawls an unfamiliar city, but inside—they follow a script of their own.
They slide into the aerocar. The doors seal with a hush, like a breath being drawn before the curtain rises.
The cabin falls into silence—soft, enveloping, like velvet before the act begins.
Yulia smiles. But beneath the charm lies a strand of tension, taut as piano wire.
Alex turns to her, warmth in his voice—genuine, almost startling in its sincerity.
"You were brilliant out there, Yulia."
He pulls her into a hug—not performative, not tender. Just real. The kind of embrace forged in fire, in chaos. Bonded not by romance—but by survival.
She leans in slightly, fluid as a feline before a pounce. Her makeup is flawless. Her eyes are not.
He watches her and thinks, Every time, she's someone else.
And every time—she's real. Or is she?
"You still know how to sell it," she says. Her tone drips with lazy venom, like wine laced with something darker.
He kisses her—quick, restrained. Not desire. Ritual.
And yet—something stirs beneath his skin. A hum. A tremor.
Like this mission isn't just a mission anymore.
And that is dangerous.
"You think this disguise will seduce just anyone?" Yulia asks, lips curling in a predator's grin.
"If I say yes, will you make a scene?" His chuckle is dry, tinged with chill. "Just tell me—are we on track?"
"Charm was flawless. The nanoparticles are in place. The target is infected." She leans back in her seat like a queen after a clean execution.
"Ivan nailed his part. Without him, the stage would've collapsed," Alex nods.
But something nags him. An itch in the back of his mind.
Why hasn't she told me what was really said?
He turns to the window, pretending to study the blur of light. But in the reflection, her eyes are watching.
"What did you and the diplomat talk about for so long?"
Pause. Delicate. Too delicate.
She smiles.
He's jealous. Of course he is.
Hell, I'd be jealous of me too.
"Are you jealous?"
"Me?" He scoffs. "I'm a professional. I don't get jealous. I strategize."
"Shame," she says, mock-pouting. "I was hoping for a little spark of beautiful, irrational jealousy."
"Let's just go," she says, the line delivered like the last beat of a well-timed scene.
The aerocar lifts, smooth as a swallow vanishing into the night sky.
Below—city lights pulse, heavy with secrets and smoke. Neon slices the dark like a surgeon's scalpel. Up here, there's only wind. And altitude. And the knowledge that velocity might be the only thing keeping them ahead of the fall.
The dashboard blinks red. An alert.
Alex stiffens. All softness gone. The soldier returns.
The one who's outrun bullets. Lied to death. And won.
"We've got a tail," he says. His voice rough, serrated.
Damn. Either someone sold us out… or we made the wrong bet.
No time to find out which.
He swipes across the control screen. The aerocar jerks upward—punched into the sky like a jailbreak.
Behind them—noise, masks, lights.
Ahead—only night.
And the roar of escape.
Yulia grips the armrest.
If this is the end, she thinks, let it at least be beautiful.
Below: the shimmer of the metropolis.
Above: nothingness.
And in between—two people.
Running. Acting.
Or maybe already falling.
But until the very end—together.