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Ryan's left leg was still numb when they shoved him back into the cage.
The gate slammed behind him. Metal on metal, loud enough to rattle his teeth. His opponent was already waiting on the far side—bigger than the last guy, augmented shoulders that didn't quite match his frame. Cheap grafts. The kind that rejected if you looked at them wrong.
Ryan rolled his neck and felt the current prickling under his skin. Too soon. Way too soon.
The crowd was thicker tonight. More bodies pressed against the chain-link, more phones up, more cash changing hands in the back rows. Someone had spread the word about the burnout case who cooked his last opponent alive. Ryan could see it in their faces. They weren't here for a clean fight.
They wanted the fireworks.
"You good?" Derek's voice crackled through the earpiece Natasha had jammed into his hand five minutes ago. "You look like shit."
"Go to hell," Ryan muttered.
"Already there, man. Just keep it together for three minutes."
Three minutes. Ryan had lasted ninety seconds in the first fight before his regulator shit the bed and turned his opponent into barbecue. Now Natasha wanted him back in the ring with a body that was already sparking.
The ref—some scarred-up ex-boxer with half his jaw replaced—stepped into the center. "No lethal mods, no neural jamming, no outside interference." He looked straight at Ryan. "And if your rig fries again, you're cleaning up the mess."
Ryan didn't answer.
The bell rang.
His opponent came in fast. Ryan sidestepped, felt the current jump in his spine, and bit down hard enough to taste blood. The augmented guy swung wide and Ryan ducked under, drove a fist into his ribs. Cheap grafts meant weak integration points. The guy grunted and stumbled back.
Good. If Ryan could end this quick, maybe his body wouldn't cook itself trying.
But the guy recovered faster than he should've. He rushed forward and caught Ryan's shoulder, slammed him into the chain-link. The crowd roared. Ryan's vision blurred. The current was building, crawling up his nerves like fire ants under the skin.
"Move, move!" Derek's voice in his ear. "Don't let him pin you."
Ryan twisted, shoved the guy off, and threw a jab that landed clean on his jaw. The augmented shoulders made him top-heavy. Ryan swept his leg and the guy went down hard.
Should've ended it there.
But Ryan's left leg buckled. The numbness was spreading. He stumbled, caught himself on the fence, and the guy was already getting up.
"Ryan, your charge is spiking." Natasha's voice now, calm and clinical. "You need to discharge or pull out."
"Can't pull out," Ryan growled. His hands were shaking. The current was arcing between his fingers, little blue sparks that lit up the dim cage. "You made sure of that."
"Then discharge. Controlled. Like we talked about."
They hadn't talked about shit. Natasha had strapped him to a table, shoved something into his neural port, and told him the new code would keep him from frying his own brain. She didn't say anything about control.
The augmented guy charged again. Ryan sidestepped, barely, and grabbed his arm. The current jumped. The guy screamed and Ryan let go, staggering back. The smell of burned skin filled the cage.
The crowd went wild.
Ryan looked up. Faces pressed against the chain-link, mouths open, eyes wide. They were cheering. Not for him. For the pain. For the chance to see someone burn.
His stomach turned.
"Finish it." Derek again. "Come on, man, just put him down."
Ryan looked at his opponent. The guy was on his knees, clutching his arm. The skin was blistered, red and black. He wasn't getting up.
The ref was already stepping in. "Match over. Winner, Kash."
Ryan didn't feel like a winner. He felt like a weapon someone else was firing.
The gate opened. He walked out, legs shaking, and nearly ran into Derek. His old squadmate was grinning, one hand already reaching for Ryan's shoulder.
"That was close, but you pulled it off. Natasha's gonna be—"
Ryan grabbed Derek's jacket. Slammed him into the wall. The current was still jumping under his skin, hot and angry, and Derek's grin died fast.
"You set me up," Ryan said. His voice was low, steady. "You brought me here, you sold me to her, and now I can't even feel my own fucking leg."
Derek's hands came up, palms out. "Ryan. Man. I didn't know it was gonna be like this."
"Bullshit."
"I swear. I just—" Derek swallowed. "I just needed the debt cleared. That's it. Natasha said she could help you, said she could fix your rig—"
"She's not fixing anything." Ryan's grip tightened. The current arced between his fingers, and Derek flinched. "She's using me. And you handed me over."
"Ryan." Derek's voice cracked. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. But you're still breathing. That's more than the other guy."
Ryan wanted to swing. Wanted to slam his fist into Derek's face and let the current do the rest. His hand was already pulling back.
But he couldn't.
His arm wouldn't move. The muscles locked up, seized, and the current backfired through his shoulder. Pain whited out his vision. He let go of Derek and collapsed against the wall, gasping.
Derek backed away, pale. "Shit. Shit. Are you—"
"Get out." Ryan's voice was barely a whisper. "Get out before I can move again."
Derek ran.
Ryan slid down the wall and sat there, breathing hard, waiting for the current to stop eating him from the inside. The crowd noise was fading. The lights were too bright. His neural port was buzzing, hot against the base of his skull.
Then his vision flickered.
Text burned across his eyes. White letters on black, layered over the real world like a bad AR overlay.
Want the truth about your squad?
Ryan's breath stopped.
The text didn't waver. Didn't glitch. It just sat there, clean and cold.
Come alone. Loading dock. Midnight.
Then it was gone.
Ryan stared at the empty wall. His heart was hammering. No one else had access to his neural port. No one except Natasha, and she wouldn't be cryptic. She'd just drag him into her clinic and cut him open.
His squad.
Three years ago. The botched extraction. The op that fried his regulator and left two of his teammates dead.
He'd never gotten a clean answer about what went wrong.
Ryan pushed himself to his feet. His leg was still numb, his hands were still shaking, and someone had just sent a message straight into his brain.
Midnight. Loading dock.
He didn't know who. Didn't know why.
But he was going to find out.