Antiseptic burned in Radomir’s nostrils, overriding the lingering tang of sweat from the dojo floor. He sat upright on a chrome-framed bench inside Ascendant Helix Medical, watching the second counter flicker on the wall monitor. Every passing digit marked the steady erosion of Milena’s life force.
Dr. Arin Solov stepped out from the inner corridor, his grey hair clipped down to the scalp and his expression guarded. He gestured Radomir into his office. “Radomir. Thank you for coming.”
The door hissed shut, sealing out the hum of ventilation scrubbers. Solov’s desk held only a solitary slate terminal. He didn’t sit, instead leaning against the desk’s edge. “Milena’s condition… it has worsened rapidly.”
Radomir’s knuckles whitened, digging into his palms. “How rapidly? What does that mean?”
“The parasitic Core Sigil is accelerating its consumption. It’s no longer a slow drain; it’s a ravenous hunger.” Solov tapped a finger on the console. “We’ve run every diagnostic, tried every known counter-agent. Nothing slows it. In fact, some of our experimental treatments seem to… exacerbate its growth.”
“Exacerbate? How?” Radomir asked, his ribs locking tight.
“It appears to feed on certain energy signatures. Your sister’s body, her own burgeoning Core Sigil, is producing something the parasite thrives on. And… if you’ve been training intensely, your own proximity might be contributing, however indirectly, to its accelerated maturation.”
The diagnosis settled into Radomir like lead shot. His exponential progress, the frantic pursuit of raw strength, was feeding the growth inside his sister’s chest.
“What are the options?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
Solov sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “There’s a new protocol, highly experimental, developed by the Ironweave conglomerate. They call it the ‘Null-Matrix Infusion.’ It promises to isolate and then neutralize the parasitic energy signature.”
“Ironweave?” Radomir pressed his palms against his thighs. Dmitri. Borislav. The very corporation that had orchestrated his execution, whose chairman had just flagged him as a priority target.
“It’s the only hope we have left, Radomir. But the cost…” Solov keyed the desk projector. Rows of numbers, stark and astronomical, shimmered in the air. “Each infusion cycle is twenty million credits. We estimate she’ll need at least ten cycles, potentially more, before we can even consider remission.”
Two hundred million credits. Radomir stared at the impossible sum. His family’s dojo, once a modest success, was now barely scraping by. His recent victories in the underground circuits, impressive as they were, had netted him a fraction of that. This wasn't just a cost; it was a ransom.
“I understand,” Radomir said, the words feeling like gravel in his throat. He stood, his gaze sweeping the pristine office. On a small, unobtrusive plaque beside the frame, a polished chrome emblem caught the strip lights: the stylized double helix logo of Ironweave. The corporation owned the ward outright.
Solov nodded, misinterpreting Radomir’s focus. “They’ve invested heavily in cutting-edge medical research. We are fortunate to have their patronage.”
Radomir gave a brief nod and stepped past the pneumatic seal, leaving the facility behind as the smell of scrubbed air gave way to storm runoff.
Hours later, the rain hammered down, turning the grimy alley behind the old Clocktower District into a slick, obsidian tunnel. Water streamed off Radomir’s heavy coat, blurring the neon reflections in the puddles. A figure stepped from the deep shadow cast by a decaying refuse container, their silhouette briefly illuminated by a passing mag-train.
Zofia Rostova. Her name had come to him through an untraceable encrypted message just after Borislav’s warning. She wore a fitted, dark technician’s jumpsuit, its material shedding the rain. Her hair, the color of polished obsidian, was pulled back tightly, showing the sharp angles of her face.
“You came,” she said, her voice a low murmur against the rain’s roar. There was no warmth, only a careful neutrality. “Good. Borislav is not subtle in his intentions.”
“You work for him,” Radomir stated, his eyes cutting through the gloom, assessing her. Tool or obstacle. The thought was immediate, instinctive.
“I do. As his personal aide,” she confirmed without inflection. She reached into a hidden pocket in her suit and produced a slender handheld drive, dark and unassuming. “This is untraceable. Any communications through it will bypass the corporate nets.” She held it out. “He wants you dead. I want him ruined.”
Radomir accepted the device. The alloy casing felt cold against his calluses. “Why? Why help me?”
“Let’s just say Borislav has a habit of making enemies, even among those he considers loyal. He makes promises he never keeps. He destroys lives for profit. My reasons are my own, for now.” Her eyes, dark and intelligent, met his. “Your recent display against Dmitri… it got his attention. Not the kind you want.”
“The message I received. From you?”
“Among others. He thought he’d crippled you, left you to wither. Your sudden resurgence, the public humiliation of his protégé… it infuriated him. He sees it as a direct challenge to his authority.” Zofia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “He’s hosting the Gauntlet,” Zofia said. “An underground tournament, invitational only. Ostensibly to showcase new talent. In reality, it’s a blood pit where rival houses settle scores without civic oversight.”
Radomir’s mind clicked into place. The astronomical cost of Milena’s treatment. Ironweave backing the medical facility. The tournament. It was all a trap.
“He sent an invitation,” Zofia continued, pulling an ornate gilded slab from her inner coat. This one pulsed with faint, golden light, its casing a gaudy mix of chrome and stylized circuitry. She handed it to Radomir. “He personally ensured you were on the list. He doesn’t just want you dead. He wants to make an example of you.”
Radomir looked down at the invitation, its gilded finish glaring in the damp alleyway. Borislav had set the stage; surviving it meant tearing the stage apart.