“Who the hell is Jessa Varlon, and what are you?” Zaven’s voice was a low snarl, the words scraped raw from his throat. The locked door amplified the sudden silence, making the small infirmary chamber feel like a pressure cooker. Jessa stared at him, the phantom throb behind her eyes a dull counterpoint to the racing panic in her chest. She had one chance, one desperate, improbable lie. “I’m Renzi’s… proxy,” Jessa said, pushing the words past her dry lips, testing their sound. It felt weak, flimsy. “An illegal mod-clone. He used me to take the hit when he got into trouble. He needed someone to burn in the pod, someone to absorb the penalty shocks for his debt. That’s why the ID chip showed a mismatch. I’m not even supposed to exist.” Zaven’s expression crumpled. The icy betrayal in his eyes wavered, replaced by a dawning horror. “A… proxy? To take his beatings?” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief and a chilling understanding. He looked at her, really looked at her, scanning her sickly pallor, the faint tremor in her hands. “That’s why you push yourself until you collapse. That’s why you fight like you have nothing to lose.” He stalked closer, not with anger, but with a terrifying, contained fury that wasn't directed at her. “Renzi… that bastard. He did this to you? You’re not even real? You’re just a ghost in his machine?” His hand reached out, halting inches from her face, as if afraid to touch something so fragile, so broken. “Gods, Jesse. All that pain… He made you take it all.” Jessa held his gaze, her feigned vulnerability a tightrope walk. She saw the shift, the switch from lover’s panic to a fierce, almost feral protectiveness. He wouldn't let anyone touch his proxy. He wouldn't let anyone know. His secret, his burden, his to guard. “No one can know,” Zaven said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “If the corporation finds out, they’ll decommission you. They’ll erase you.” He was already planning, his mind racing to cover her tracks, to protect this illicit, suffering being he had fallen for. “We’ll tell Toris. He’ll know what to do. He has to.” The next morning, Jessa felt like a marionette, her limbs stiff and aching, her head still a furnace despite the discreet med-patches Zaven had applied. He had stayed with her through the night, a silent, brooding sentinel, leaving only at dawn to 'confer with Toris'. Now, zipped into the team's slate uniform, she sat under the blinding floods of the pre-championship press conference. The Grand Atrium buzzed with lens drones and the snap of news correspondents. Manager Toris, an elderly strategist wrapped in an austere charcoal coat, sat at the head of the table, Zaven to his right, Jessa – 'Jesse' – to his left. Across from them sat their primary rivals, the Breakers, led by their swaggering captain, Rix. Rix leaned back in his seat, grinning thinly as he raked his focus over Jessa. “Surprised to see the ‘Ghost Blade’ looking so hollow today,” Rix drawled through the table mics, pulling low chuckles from the press. “Must be all that pressure, huh, ‘Jesse’? Heard you almost flatlined last match. Rough business, this VR.” Zaven froze. Jessa kept her gaze dead ahead, locking her ribs flat against the urge to flinch. But Rix dropped an arm below the table lip, beyond the sweep of the recorders. Heavy fingers clamped onto Jessa’s thigh, digging into the muscle right above her knee. The pressure ground straight against bone. Jessa anchored her boots to the tile, refusing to give the cameras a twitch. Then, Zaven moved. It was a blur of controlled violence. His hand shot out, not at Jessa, but across the table. His fingers clamped around Rix’s wrist. A sharp, wet crack snapped through the room. Rix’s face contorted, his predatory smirk replaced by a mask of excruciating pain. He cried out, a raw, animal sound, pulling his hand back as Zaven’s grip snapped away. His wrist dangled at an unnatural angle, already swelling. Every drone pivoted, focusing on Rix’s bent joint and the rigid lines of Zaven’s face. The atrium detonated into shouts and flashbulb bursts. Zaven leaned straight toward the primary sensor sphere. “Touch him again,” he said into the grille, “and I take the arm off.” [Omni-Core Director Alert: Team Iron Vanguard, Captain Zaven Vance. Unsanctioned Physical Assault Detected. Reputational Score -500. Immediate Punitive Action Initiated.] Manager Toris, remarkably composed amidst the pandemonium, leaned into Zaven, her voice a low hiss, unheard by the public. “You absolute fool. A broken wrist on live holovision? This is a PR nightmare of epic proportions. Executor Vance will have your head.” Zaven, still seething, merely glowered. “He deserved it. No one touches Jesse.” “Oh, I know he did,” Toris purred, a predatory glint in her shrewd eyes. “And it’s going to cost you dearly. But it’s also going to cost your dear father. You see, Zaven, this little incident gives me precisely the leverage I needed. Your father, Executor Vance, is a stickler for public image. This kind of scandal could cost him control of the Apex League sponsorship board. Unless, of course, he signs over full ownership of the roster to me. That corporate debt of Renzi’s? I orchestrated it, you know. To put the squeeze on your family. To force his hand, and yours, into playing my game. You’ll be a champion, Zaven, but you’ll be *my* champion.” Zaven stood rigid, rage giving way to disbelief. Before he could strike back, the Omni-Core cut through the noise, dropping the room into sudden silence. [Omni-Core Director Alert: Severe Violations Detected. Immediate Punitive Sudden-Death Penalty Match Initiated. Iron Vanguard versus Apex Breakers. Commencing in 60 seconds. Prepare for system transfer.] A sharp, searing pain tore through Jessa’s skull, like white-hot needles stabbing into her brain. Her vision swam, the bright lights of the atrium blurring into an indistinct haze. The world tilted violently. Her body felt like it was dissolving from the inside out, the agony of her neural fever spiking to lethal levels. She gasped, a ragged, choked sound, and slumped sideways, her arm flailing, her vision fading to black.

The Press Tour