The beep of the scanner was the only sound breaking the silence.
Beep.
Slide.
Bag.
Repeat.
Zayne Ward stood behind the register like a ghost. Same hoodie he wore yesterday. Same tired eyes. Same busted sneakers with the heel peeling off. The store lights were too bright, and the hum of the refrigerators in the back always made his head feel heavy. But the paycheck cleared—barely—and that was enough to keep showing up.
The woman in front of him argued about a fifty-cent coupon like it was a down payment on a car. Zayne didn't flinch. He just nodded, voided the milk, and rescanned it.
"Thanks," she muttered. Didn't mean it.
"Have a good night," he said anyway. Didn't mean it either.
He clocked out at 10:57 PM, three minutes before closing. It wasn't worth staying until eleven—Mr. Rowley would dock fifteen minutes if he went a second over. On the way out, he pulled his hood up. The parking lot was empty except for a busted sedan leaking oil, and a dude passed out near the vending machine. Standard.
Zayne walked fast, hands in his pockets. The city had long since gone to rot. Streetlights flickered. Sirens screamed somewhere west. He passed a wall tagged with symbols from one of the local gangs—"BLD GRDN" sprayed over an angel mural. Someone had scrawled "GET OUT OR GET GOT" in black marker underneath it.
He didn't look twice.
The apartment was five blocks away. No elevator. Fourth floor. Smelled like piss and mold and broken dreams. He deadbolted the door behind him, then dropped his bag and collapsed on the mattress he called a bed.
No TV. No AC. Just the buzz of the old VR headset resting on his nightstand, patched together with duct tape and stubbornness.
Zayne stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day sitting on his chest like bricks. Rent was due in two weeks. He was short by at least three hundred. His phone was down to 5% battery, and his stomach hadn't felt full in days.
"One more shift," he muttered to himself. It was always one more shift.
The headset blinked.
He sat up.
That was new.
A pulsing blue light spread across the visor. The screen lit up, even though it hadn't been charged.
Then came the sound: a sharp ping like a notification, followed by a flicker of static. Words scrolled across the screen:
VOID FIST: TRIAL MATCH AVAILABLE.
ENTER TO FIGHT.
WIN TO EARN.
DECLINE TO FORGET.
Zayne blinked. He reached for it, hesitating. A small part of him whispered, "It's just a glitch."
Another voice—the hungrier one—told him this was the kind of glitch that changed lives.
He strapped the headset on.
The second the headset clicked into place, everything changed.
There was no loading screen. No menu. No safety disclaimers or startup music. Just darkness—thick, suffocating, absolute.
Then—BOOM.
Zayne hit the ground hard, knees scraping against what felt like concrete. A blinding light snapped on above him. The sting of cold air ripped across his skin. The scent of blood, sweat, and metal filled his lungs.
A voice roared through unseen speakers:
"NEW CHALLENGER ENTERED. TRIAL BEGINS NOW."
"What the—?"
Something moved in the distance. Heavy footsteps. Chains rattling. Zayne stood up fast, body tense, eyes darting. He wasn't in his apartment anymore. He was in a circular arena—concrete floor, steel walls, no doors. A cage with no exit. High above, masked faces watched from glitching screens, as if peering in from some hidden server room in hell.
Across from him, a figure emerged. Eight feet tall. Mechanical limbs. No face—just a helmet with a pulsing red line across it. Its fists were the size of Zayne's chest, wrapped in rusted chain.
Zayne stepped back.
"ROUND ONE. VOID INITIATED."
The world pulsed.
His breath caught as a surge of electricity ran down his spine. His muscles tightened. Something activated inside him—an instinct buried deep, clawing to the surface. Not training. Not logic. Just survival.
The fighter lunged.
Zayne barely ducked in time, the creature's punch missing his head by inches and slamming into the floor, sending shards of the ground upward.
He stumbled, rolled, and came up swinging on reflex. His knuckles met steel. Pain lanced up his arm—real pain.
"This… isn't a game."
The creature grabbed him by the hoodie and hurled him across the ring. He hit the wall hard, back cracking against the steel. Blood filled his mouth.
Zayne gasped, every nerve screaming, and something in his head snapped.
No more hesitation. No more confusion.
He spat blood and got into position.
"Alright then," he growled. "Let's fucking fight."
The machine-fighter lunged again, faster this time. Zayne ducked beneath the swing, heart pounding, vision blurred. He didn't know what the rules were, if there were any—but the only thing that mattered was don't stop moving.
The next punch grazed his shoulder, sending a jolt of white-hot pain down his arm. He grunted and rolled to the side, keeping low.
His fingers curled into fists on instinct, even as they trembled. He stepped in—close, too close—and threw a wild right hook into the machine's midsection. It barely flinched.
"Seriously?" he muttered.
A heavy knee smashed into his ribs.
Zayne gasped, body folding, but before he hit the floor, he pushed off it, springing upward with everything he had. His elbow caught the machine's chin in a lucky strike. Sparks flew. The red visor flickered.
The crowd above roared—digitized voices cheering, glitching, some even booing in different languages. The sound wasn't real, but the pressure was.
The machine's head snapped back. Zayne didn't wait.
He grabbed the chain dangling from its wrist, yanked, and leapt onto its chest. It flailed, trying to throw him off, but he was already swinging—blow after blow, smashing his fists into the red visor.
CRACK.
The glass finally splintered. The machine reeled.
Zayne dropped back to the floor, chest heaving, hands raw and bloodied.
The machine steadied itself... then surged forward, furious now. Zayne didn't dodge this time—he stepped into the swing, deflecting with his forearm and driving his knee into the bot's inner joint. It buckled.
One more shot. He needed just one more shot.
With a scream, he twisted, pivoted, and threw a punch like his life depended on it—because it did.His fist shattered through the visor.
The machine staggered, head jerking—then slumped forward and collapsed in a heap of sparks and smoke.
Silence.
Zayne stood over it, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping into his eyes. His knuckles were torn open. His hoodie was soaked. He could still taste blood.
Then came the voice again.
"TRIAL COMPLETE. WELCOME TO VOID FIST."
The walls peeled back like pixels falling away, revealing total darkness beyond. The screen above flashed something new:
WINNER: ZAYNE WARD
REWARD: 2,000 CREDITS
RANK: UNRATED
NEXT ROUND: TBA
Zayne ripped the headset off.
He was back in his room, alone, hands still shaking. The VR gear sat lifeless in his lap, blinking like it had done nothing.
But the pain was still there. His body still ached. His hands were raw.
He looked around, breathing hard. Then his phone lit up with a ping.
A new message.
"Nice work, rookie. You're in. More fights are coming soon. Get ready."
Zayne stared at the screen, then at his hands—still shaking, still bleeding.
2,000 credits.
Enough to pay rent. Maybe even eat for a few days.
He leaned back against the wall, staring into nothing.
"…What the hell did I just get into?"