The Den always smelled like burnt metal and bad decisions.
A low-ceilinged, smoke-filled hideout tucked behind a row of abandoned warehouses, it was the kind of place where loyalties were tested, deals were made, and reputations either solidified or shattered. It wasn't the heart of the Brimstone Pact, but it was a critical piece of its operations—a controlled chaos overseen by Ramos, the man in charge of this particular base.
Ramos wasn't a king, just a lieutenant—a handler for this sector, making sure things ran smoothly, and that no one got too comfortable. He handled assignments, enforced discipline, and ensured the money and shipments kept moving without interference. His authority didn't stretch beyond the walls of this base, but inside? No one questioned him unless they were looking for trouble.
At the far end of the hall, he sat in his usual cracked leather chair, one hand resting casually on the armrest, the other flicking ash off a cheap cigar onto the concrete floor. His sharp gaze scanned the room like he was watching pieces move on a board—not in a rush, but never missing a beat.
Near the bar, two men argued over a job gone wrong—one gesturing wildly, the other barely reacting as he nursed a glass of something too strong for daytime drinking. On the far wall, a younger fighter triple-checked stacks of cash, mouthing numbers under his breath. Beside the entrance, a row of weapons rested on a metal rack, tagged for transport, some recently used, others waiting for their next job.
Then Eli walked in.
He wasn't new here. Young, yes, but not fresh. He had been around for months, moving through ranks carefully, learning fast, keeping his mouth shut when needed, proving himself when the moment called for it.
He was sharp, quiet, efficient—the kind of fighter who didn't waste movement or words. Ramos liked that about him.
Eli moved through the room with purpose, dodging stray limbs and conversations, heading straight toward the back where Ramos sat.
"You called me?" Eli asked, stopping just short of the table.
Ramos took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling before answering.
"You've been around a while now."
Eli nodded. "Yeah."
"And you've kept your mouth shut when it matters." Ramos tilted his head slightly. "That's rare."
Eli didn't react, just waited.
"Tell me something," Ramos continued, voice low and measured. "You ever want to move up?"
Everyone knew what that meant. Moving up in a place like this wasn't just about getting more pay or better treatment. It meant stepping into things you couldn't walk away from later. It meant being trusted with jobs that actually mattered.
Eli hesitated only for a moment. "I wouldn't be here if I wanted to stay small."
Ramos let out a short chuckle, leaning back, flicking the last of his cigar into the ashtray.
"Good answer."
He tapped his fingers against the table, thinking, then finally nodded to himself.
"I have a job for you."
Eli's posture stayed still, his expression unreadable, but Ramos saw the shift—the sharpened focus, the way his shoulders squared just slightly.
"What needs to be done?" Eli asked.
Ramos didn't answer immediately, just smirked slightly before waving him off.
"You'll know soon enough."
Eli exhaled through his nose, then turned without another word, disappearing into the motion of the room.
Ramos watched him go, flicking a stray ash from his sleeve. The kid would either rise or get swallowed by the game.
Either way, tonight would set the tone.
---
Academy Sector—Later That Evening
Xavier sat on the edge of his bunk, trying to force himself to calm down.
It wasn't working.
His room was still wrecked.
His covers had been pulled off, his bunk shoved slightly out of position, his gear tossed across the floor like someone had been looking for something—or just trying to mess with him.
His pulse was tight, but he wasn't shaking with anger. Not yet.
He needed to breathe. Think.
But before he could work through it, the door swung open.
"I did it," a voice said flatly. "What are you gonna do about it?"
Xavier looked up slowly, locking onto the figure in the doorway.
Rank 289.
The highest-ranked fighter in Segment 10.
Xavier's fingers curled against his knee, but he didn't move.
He wasn't afraid. He was calculating.
Then, suddenly—
A blaring alarm cut through the air.
The academy's emergency directive flashed across the wall screen beside them.
"All fighters report to the central courtyard immediately. Emergency directive in place. No exceptions."
289 didn't move.
Neither did Xavier.
The weight of both moments—his trashed room and the sudden academy-wide emergency—pressed against him all at once.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to stay steady.
Whatever happened next was going to matter.