The alley behind Edenridge's south ward was a corpse.
Filthy, narrow, and half-swallowed by shadows, it reeked of piss, ash, and rot. Rusted fire escapes hung overhead like broken ribs. Somewhere above, a baby cried. Somewhere below, rats fought over an oil-slicked wrapper.
Kieran moved through it like a ghost.
Three days remained before the first Gate opened.
He'd spent the last four moving with purpose—scouting the city's dead zones, tracking blackout zones, noting gang routes. Every time he turned a corner, memories whispered at him. The past life bleeding through.
There, by the laundromat—where the first possessed tore through an old man with yellow eyes and a bloody smile.Past the chapel—where survivors burned the infected with gasoline and regret.The rooftop above the chemist's shop—where he'd made his first kill.
Now, he was searching for something else.
Fuel.
Not firewood or oil.
Fuel for the soul. For the will.
And in Edenridge, there was only one place that offered that kind of flame before the Awakening: an illegal underground fight club called The Pit.
It was where desperate men bled for tokens and forgotten kids watched them die to learn how to live.
Kieran ducked under a rusted chain-link gate and descended the concrete stairs behind the abandoned gym.
The stink of sweat and smoke hit him like a wall. The air was thick with testosterone, rage, and something else—something meaner. The sort of atmosphere that clung to your skin and never washed off.
The Pit wasn't large—just a cracked circle of bloodstained concrete surrounded by a metal cage and thirty to forty spectators pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. Cigarettes glowed like fireflies in the dark. Bottles clinked. Someone was already screaming for blood.
Kieran moved through the crowd, unnoticed.
He was smaller now. Weaker. The man he used to be would've drawn attention, maybe fear. This version? Just another rat in the gutter.
But that was fine.
Rats learned to survive.
The current fight was brutal. One man wielded a length of rebar like a club. The other was already down, coughing teeth into the dirt.
The match ended with a crunch that made Kieran wince. The crowd roared. Bets were exchanged. No medics came.
Only the victor walked out.
A tall, wiry man with tattoos crawling up his neck and a haunted grin stretched across his face. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
Kieran watched him.
That was Cade, also known as the Knifeman.
In his past life, Cade survived the first Wave. He awakened with a rare Card—[Shatterpoint]—a brutal edge-type ability that turned any object into a lethal weakness finder. He had used it to carve through monsters and men alike before dying during the Siege of Briarhill.
That Card… it was a top-tier pull.
And it could've been Kieran's.
If he moved quickly.
Before the club reset the next match, Kieran slid over to the old man handling the roster—a fat, toothless bookmaker named Rigg.
"I want in," Kieran said.
Rigg squinted down at him through grime-crusted glasses. "You? You look like you get winded climbing stairs."
"I only need three minutes."
Rigg's laugh was phlegmy and cruel. "And what happens after your spine gets snapped?"
"I'll take a fall if I lose. You still get your blood."
Rigg's eyes narrowed. "You got a death wish, kid?"
"No," Kieran said. "I've got a plan."
That seemed to amuse him more than it should have. "Fine. You're up next. Try not to die too fast—these bastards like a show."
Kieran stepped into the cage ten minutes later.
His opponent was a slab of muscle named Mondo—three hundred pounds of prison tats and broken noses. The man grinned at the sight of him, licking his teeth like Kieran was lunch.
Kieran didn't smile back.
He rolled his shoulders. Felt every fragile bone and muscle groan in protest.
This was stupid.
But necessary.
Because Kieran needed pain.
He needed muscle memory. To wake the old instincts trapped in this younger shell. To feel that edge again. And nothing ignited a man's fire faster than the promise of death.
The bell rang.
Mondo came at him like a bull.
Kieran ducked, letting instinct guide him. His foot pivoted, his shoulder dropped. Mondo's meaty fist cut through the air where Kieran's head had been a heartbeat ago.
Then Kieran struck.
His elbow slammed into Mondo's gut—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him angry.
That was the point.
Mondo roared. Swung wide.
Kieran let the punch graze him, let the pain bloom across his cheek like fire.
Good.
Pain sharpened the senses. Reminded him that he was alive. That time was running out. That monsters didn't care if you were tired, or scared, or broken.
Only strength mattered.
Kieran ducked again. Pivoted. Slid under Mondo's guard.
And then he let himself remember.
The battlefield.
The smell of burning Gateflowers. The sound of screams. The crack of bone. The cold weight of the Hollow King's card pulsing in his hand like a second heart.
He remembered the dance.
And then Kieran moved.
Three strikes—sharp, precise, like a scalpel. One to the ribs. One to the throat. One behind the knee.
Mondo crumpled like a building with its foundation ripped out.
The crowd exploded. Shocked. Confused.
Rigg stood up from his chair, blinking hard.
Kieran didn't wait. He wiped the blood from his knuckles and walked out of the cage before anyone could stop him.
He didn't need applause.
He needed time.
And he was running out of it.