“Rizka!” Jettio shrieked, scrambling to hide behind the server rack, already fumbling for his wrist-mounted comms. “They’re Syndicate! The ones gunning for grid wipeout! They’ll butcher us!” I braced myself, my hand already flying to the sidearm holstered beneath my coat, but Rizka merely sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of fear or surrender, but one of profound, inconvenienced weariness. She pushed herself up from the metal housing, stretched her arms above her head with a soft pop of joints, and then, with an unhurried flick, pulled a jade hair stick from her disheveled bun. Her raven hair tumbled down her back. Gathering it quickly, she twisted it into a tight, practical knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a single, swift motion. “Too much noise,” she murmured, her tone flat beneath the cooling fans’ whine. “This is going to ruin my morning nap.” The point raider, a hulking figure with an optic implant plate, barked an order into their comms. “Targets acquired. Eliminate the woman first. Priority one is the doomsday trigger.” The first volley of bullets tore through the air, carving divots into the wall behind where Rizka had just been napping. She was already moving. Not with frantic energy, but with a fluid, almost bored grace. She scooped up a thick, rolled-up trade journal – a discarded quarterly printout from some long-forgotten tech giant – and, in the same motion, snatched a memory-foam cushion from a nearby heap of laundry. My mind struggled to process the scene. Four heavily armed shock troops, and Rizka, armed with discarded print and bedding. It was absurd. The first rifleman lunged, bringing the butt of his sub-machine gun down in a crushing arc. Rizka didn't dodge; she *shifted*. The bound paper, held loosely in her right hand, met the weapon’s impact with a sharp crack, parrying it aside. The rifleman’s momentum carried him forward, and Rizka simply nudged him with the cushion, a nudge that sent the armored man stumbling off balance. Before he could recover, she spun, the rolled pages a blur, striking a nerve cluster along his wrist. His grip loosened, and the sub-machine gun clattered to the floor. The cushion, now held as a guard, smothered a punch from the second gunman, foam dampening the blow with a faint squish. “Observe the Grandmaster, Jettio,” I murmured. The whispered tales of the Voraxian Gauntlet’s undefeated champion, a phantom warrior who fought with impossible, almost lazy precision, never breaking a sweat. It couldn’t be. It *had* to be. More mercenaries piled in through the ruined doorway—eight more, bringing the total to twelve, active-camo shrouds flickering as they crowded the cramped space. They moved with coordinated aggression, a lethal ballet of blades and bullets. Rizka, however, moved like a ripple in still water. She used their mass against them, redirecting a swinging knuckle-duster into another raider’s jaw, a flick of the journal knocking a pistol loose while the cushion absorbed a boot strike from a fourth. One raider, lunging low for a tackle, found himself whipped over Rizka’s shoulder and sent crashing headfirst into a processor housing, sparks spitting as his composite helmet cracked. Another, trying to skirt her blind side, had his boot collar hooked by the paper roll, sending him sprawling. The foam pad, shoved forward with clinical leverage, smothered the shouts of a heavy gunner as Rizka pinned his cheek against drywall, letting his bulk compress his windpipe until his limbs slackened. Within ninety seconds, the apartment fell quiet save for cooling exhausts and Jettio’s hitching gasps. Twelve Obsidian Syndicate operatives lay strewn across the floor, disarmed, unconscious, or groaning softly into the distressed carpet. Not a single drop of blood. Not a single bullet hole beyond the initial volley. Rizka smoothed her collar, blew a speck of drywall dust from her knuckle, and slotted the rolled paper between two mainframe chassis. “Now, about that nap,” she mumbled, her eyes already half-closed. She took a step, then swayed slightly. My instincts took over. I caught her by the bicep, steadying her frame before she could tumble backward against the mainframe cage. On the floor, the point operative with the optical plate stirred. His comm unit, still clipped to his ear, crackled to life. A voice, smooth and laced with artificial cordiality, cut through the silence. “Status, Unit 7. Target down?” The speaker frequency belonged to Veridian Kross, head of Kross-Omni Corp. His voice oozed self-satisfaction. “Korin Bael was remarkably easy to manipulate, wouldn’t you agree? A few planted rumors, a forged financial report suggesting Rizka was siphoning funds… his ego did the rest. Now, with the biometric link broken, the system fails, and Kross-Omni will buy every scrap of Xylos.” He chuckled, a dry, calculating sound. “All hail the new corporate order. And to think, it all hinged on the vanity of an insecure CEO and the laziness of his wife.” The door frame, already scorched and splintered, suddenly creaked. Korin Bael stood there, framed by a phalanx of his personal security, his face a mask of manufactured concern. He clutched a bouquet of holographic lilies. “Rizka, my dear! I came as soon as I heard! Are you alright? These… *ruffians* haven’t harmed you, have they?” He took in the wrecked apartment, the unconscious assassins, and then, his gaze locked onto me, his arm still supporting Rizka. His gaze tightened, zeroing on the contact point. He strode forward, pushing past his own bewildered security. “Ozer! What are you doing here? And *why* are you touching my… my former wife?” His voice was sharp, laced with an accusation that tasted of desperate jealousy. Rizka, leaning heavily against me, let out a soft snore. Veridian Kross’s voice, amplified through the comm, suddenly took on a colder, more urgent tone. “Unit 7, transmit! What is happening? The grid is still stable!” A pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “No matter. The backup protocol is already in motion. Listen carefully, Rizka Voda. You may be a Grandmaster, but you cannot stop what has begun. There is only one physical hard-kill switch for the neural-grid failure, and it is located at the very bottom of the Voraxian Gauntlet. To even *enter* the Gauntlet, you require a corporate sponsor. Good luck, Zero. You’ll need it.”

Pillows and Punches