The week passed in a blur of concrete, steel, and the ever-present, screaming tinnitus. The ringing in Kyon's head was no longer just a sound; it was a landscape. A white-noise desert where memories scuttled like poisonous lizards. The hollow sockets. The petunias. The neat, red lines. They played in loops on the blank walls of his cell, against the backs of his eyelids when he tried to sleep. He didn't sleep. He trained.
His cell became a forge. Every waking hour was dedicated to transforming the broken instrument of his body into a weapon calibrated for one purpose: breaking Grendel. He knew he couldn't match the giant's raw power. He had to become something else—a scalpel, a virus, a structural flaw introduced into a monolith.
He analyzed the memory of Grendel's fight with The Abbot, replaying it frame-by-frame in his mind. Grendel's weaknesses were few, but they were there. He was patient to the point of arrogance. He enjoyed the process of breaking more than the result, which meant he gave opponents time. His sheer size made him a touch slower in changing direction. And his eyes… his small, blue eyes always gave a micro-twitch, a flicker of pleasure, just before he moved in for a finishing sequence. He was an artist of pain, and like all artists, he had a tell.
Kyon's training was unorthodox. He did thousands of fingertip push-ups to strengthen his hands for gouging, for eye strikes. He practiced knee and elbow strikes from impossible angles against the cell's bunk, the dull thuds echoing in the tiny space. He worked on his neck muscles, hardening them against the chokes that were sure to come. He visualized not winning, but surviving long enough to find a crack. He was no longer preparing for a fight. He was preparing for a demolition.
Ice was his only link to the outside world and the prison's underworld. He smuggled information in the form of whispers during library duty.
"Grendel's been asking about you," Ice murmured, shelving a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. "Not just the fight. He knows about the syndicate. About Orlov. His people on the outside have ears. He's intrigued. Thinks you might be more valuable alive, as a connection."
"I'm not a connection," Kyon said, running a whetstone along the edge of his metal spoon, honing it to a sharp enough point to be useful. "I'm an exterminator."
"He sees a rabid dog. He's trying to decide if he can put a leash on it or if he needs to put it down." Ice glanced at the spoon. "He won't let you bring that into the Circle."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Because it makes me feel ready."
Ice shook his head. "They're taking bets. The odds are twenty-to-one against you. Even Creeper's crew put money on Grendel."
Kyon just nodded. The odds were irrelevant. The only number that mattered was one. One chance. One opening. One kill.
The day before the fight, he was summoned to the warden's office. Warden Burgess was a slab of a man with a face like a clenched fist and eyes that had seen every variety of human depravity. He looked at Kyon across a wide, empty desk.
"Wilson. I've got a folder here an inch thick of psych evals saying you're a walking trauma response with homicidal ideation. Your lawyer is screaming for your transfer to a psychiatric facility. The FBI agent, Hayes, is advising I keep you isolated. And yet, I hear you've volunteered to get in the ring with the worst predator in my zoo."
Kyon stood silently.
"I don't care what you do to each other in there," Burgess said, his voice low and cold. "In fact, it makes my job easier. One less problem. But if you die, Wilson, it creates paperwork and outside scrutiny I don't need. So I'm giving you an out. Spend the next week in the SHU, cool off, and this 'Sunday Service' nonsense gets forgotten."
"No, sir," Kyon said, his voice flat.
Burgess leaned back, studying him. "Why? You have money. You have fame waiting for you out there. Why throw it away for a prison-yard reputation?"
Kyon met his gaze. The emptiness in his own eyes was more unsettling than any threat. "There's nothing out there for me. In here, I'm honest. In here, the monsters wear their faces on the outside."
Burgess stared for a long moment, then sighed, a sound of pure dismissal. "Fine. Get out. Just know, no one is coming to save you when Grendel decides to peel your spine out through your throat."
---
Sunday.
The atmosphere in the laundry was electric, a tangible current of violence in the steam-thick air. The crowd was larger, more feverish. Word had spread: the celebrity psycho was challenging the king. This wasn't just a fight; it was a ritual slaughter, and everyone wanted a front-row seat.
Kyon stood in the shadows by the giant press, doing his final warm-up—not physical, but mental. He closed his eyes and stepped into the white-noise desert in his mind. He let the images come: his mother's face, whole and smiling, then shattered. The Gardener's winter-pond eyes going blank. The petunias. He didn't push them away. He gathered them. He forged them into a single, cold point of focus. The ringing in his ears became a battle hymn.
Ice appeared, face grim. "He's here. And he's… motivated. Someone from the outside got word to him. About your mother. The details."
Kyon's eyes opened. "What?"
"He knows what was done. He thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. He's been joking about it all day. Calling it 'gardening.'" Ice put a hand on Kyon's arm. "Listen to me. He's going to try to break you psychologically before he breaks you physically. Don't listen."
A slow, cold fire ignited in the frozen lake of Kyon's being. The details were his. His horror. His private hell. Grendel was trespassing.
Vicious's gravel roar cut through the din. "THE CALL FOR THE TOP NAME! CHALLENGER'S RIGHTS! STEP FORWARD AND BE KNOWN!"
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Kyon walked into the Circle. The bare bulb overhead cast deep, harsh shadows. The stained concrete felt definitive under his thin prison shoes.
A roar erupted as Grendel entered. He was shirtless, his massive torso a canvas of hate and supremacy. He carried a towel draped over one shoulder like a prizefighter. He grinned at the crowd, soaking in the adulation, then fixed his small, blue eyes on Kyon. The micro-twitch of pleasure was already there.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Grendel boomed, playing to the crowd. "We have here a special case! A little lost puppy who thinks because he used to fight for shiny belts, he knows what violence is!" He laughed, a sound like rocks in a drum. "But we know the truth, don't we? He's just a momma's boy who likes to play in the dirt!"
The crowd laughed, a cruel, eager sound.
Kyon didn't move. He just stared, his gaze locked on Grendel's throat.
Vicious stepped between them. "You know the rules! No weapons! Fight's over at surrender or incapacity! Touch the line, you lose!" He looked at both of them, his spiderweb face unreadable. "This is for the Top Name. And whatever else you bet." He stepped back. "BREAK!"
Grendel didn't charge. He stalked, a great cat playing with its food. "I heard about your mommy's little garden party," he said, his voice a low, conversational rumble meant only for Kyon. "Petunias, right? Pretty. I would've used daisies. More ironic."
The cold fire in Kyon's chest flared. He pushed it down, into his legs, his fists. Wait.
"They say you cried. That you sat in the rain with her. Did you try to put the flowers back in? Tuck her insides back in? Like a good little boy?"
Kyon's left eye twitched. A microscopic tell. Grendel saw it and his grin widened. He feinted a lumbering jab. Kyon didn't flinch. He was measuring distance, timing.
"I'm gonna do you a favor, Orphan," Grendel whispered, circling. "I'm gonna put you out of your misery. And when I'm done, I'm gonna have my people on the outside send a letter to your Russian friend. Tell him the weed has been… plucked."
He lunged. It was shockingly fast for his size, a blast of momentum aimed at crushing Kyon against the steam pipes. Kyon didn't try to slip. He dropped, letting the massive arms sail over his head, and drove a spear-hand up into Grendel's exposed armpit—a cluster of nerves.
Grendel grunted, more in surprise than pain, and swatted a backhand that caught Kyon on the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. The impact was staggering, like being hit by a car door.
Kyon rolled with it, creating distance. His left shoulder went numb. Okay. Power confirmed.
The crowd oohed. The first contact.
Grendel looked at his armpit, then back at Kyon, his playful demeanor hardening. "Okay. No more games."
He came forward again, this time with purpose, cutting off the Circle. He threw a straight right, a piston blow that had killed men. Kyon parried it, redirecting the force, but the shock traveled up his forearm, rattling his bones. He countered with a left hook to the ribs. It felt like punching a side of beef. Grendel ignored it and clubbed a left hook of his own at Kyon's head.
Kyon saw it coming—the tell, the flicker in the eyes. He ducked, the fist whistling over his head, and came up inside Grendel's guard. Here. He unleashed a barrage: a right elbow to the solar plexus, a left uppercut to the chin, a knee to the inner thigh. It was a storm of pinpoint, debilitating violence.
Grendel roared, a sound of genuine anger now. He wrapped his enormous arms around Kyon in a crushing bear hug, lifting him off his feet. The air exploded from Kyon's lungs. He felt his cracked ribs scream in protest, felt vertebrae groan. Grendel began to squeeze, aiming to pop his spine like a grape.
The white noise in Kyon's head became a roar. Spots danced in his vision. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't strike. He did the only thing he could—he slammed his forehead forward, once, twice, into Grendel's nose.
Blood spurted. Grendel's grip loosened for a fraction of a second. Kyon drove his thumbs into the giant's eyes.
Grendel bellowed in pain and threw Kyon across the Circle. Kyon hit the concrete on his back, the wind knocked out of him again, skidding to the very edge of the stained line.
The crowd was in a frenzy. No one had ever made Grendel bleed. No one had ever gotten that close.
Kyon scrambled to his feet, gasping, his vision swimming. Grendel stood wiping blood from his eyes, his face a mask of psychotic rage. The playful tormentor was gone. The true monster was unveiled.
"You," Grendel snarled, "are dead."
He charged, a bull of pure malice. Kyon was still disoriented, his body screaming. He tried to pivot, but his numb shoulder betrayed him. He was a half-step slow.
Grendel's fist caught him on the side of the head.
The world dissolved into light and sound and pain. The ringing in his ears became a deafening siren. He felt himself falling, but the concrete never came. Grendel caught him by the throat with one hand, lifting him, holding him up for the crowd to see.
"SEE?" Grendel screamed. "SEE THE LITTLE PUPPY?"
Kyon dangled, choking, clawing at the iron grip. He kicked weakly at Grendel's torso. It was useless.
"This is what happens to weeds!" Grendel spat blood onto Kyon's face. "They get pulled! Root and stem!"
He drew back his other fist, a massive hammer poised to obliterate Kyon's features.
In that suspended moment, as blackness crept in at the edges of his vision, Kyon's mind did not go to fear, or to his mother, or to vengeance. It went to the mechanics. The grip on his throat was centered. Grendel's arm was fully extended, his balance forward. His eyes held that same micro-twitch of pleasure, anticipating the crush.
It was the same tell.
With the last of his oxygen, Kyon didn't struggle against the hand. He pulled on it, using his own body weight to yank Grendel off-balance just as the giant threw his punch.
The hammer-blow fist grazed Kyon's temple instead of landing flush. At the same moment, Grendel, pulled forward, stumbled a half-step.
Kyon's feet touched the ground. He dropped his entire weight, breaking the throat grip for an instant. He didn't try to escape. He spun into Grendel, his back to the giant's chest. He trapped Grendel's still-extended punching arm under his own armpit, and with a surge of desperate strength fueled by pure survival instinct, he bent forward.
A judo throw. Tai otoshi.
Grendel, overcommitted and off-balance, sailed over Kyon's shoulder. The three-hundred-pound giant crashed onto the concrete back-first with an impact that shook the floor. The air left his lungs in a whoosh that sounded like a dying bellows.
The crowd fell dead silent.
Kyon didn't pause. He was on him in an instant. He mounted Grendel's chest, pinning the massive arms with his knees. Grendel, stunned, winded, tried to buck him off. Kyon rained down blows—not fists, but elbows. Short, piston-like strikes to the face. The nose shattered. The lips split. Cheekbones cracked.
Grendel's thrashing grew weaker. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The other held a new emotion: shock, then dawning fear.
Kyon stopped. He wasn't breathing hard. He was in a vacuum. He leaned down, his face inches from Grendel's ruined one. The crowd was a distant murmur. The steam-hiss was gone. There was only the ringing and the sound of Grendel's wet, ragged breaths.
"The name," Kyon whispered, his voice raw from the chokehold.
Grendel just stared, uncomprehending.
"You said this was for the Top Name," Kyon said, calm, conversational. "What's the name?"
Understanding dawned in Grendel's one good eye. Surrender. He had to surrender the title. He opened his mouth, a bubble of blood forming on his lips.
But Kyon didn't want the title. He wanted something else.
"My mother's name was Eleanor," Kyon said, so quietly only Grendel could hear. "You don't get to speak it. You don't get to think it. From now on, when you see me, you won't see a man. You'll see her. You'll see the garden. And you will fear it."
He raised his fist one last time. Not to strike. To demonstrate the finality.
"The name," he said, his voice now carrying in the silence, "is 'The Reckoning.' Do you yield?"
It was a formality. They both knew he had won. But the ritual demanded it.
Grendel, broken in body and spirit, his reign ended by a ghost with thumbs, gave the faintest nod.
A sound escaped his bloody lips. It might have been "Yes."
Kyon stood up. He looked at Vicious. The spiderweb-faced man stared, then slowly raised Kyon's arm.
"The Top Name… is THE RECKONING!"
There was no cheer. There was a collective, stunned exhalation. The king was dead. A new, colder, more terrifying king stood in his place.
Kyon looked at Grendel's crew. They stared back, hatred and fear warring in their eyes. He pointed at the biggest one. "You. Get him to the infirmary." The man moved without thought, obeying the new authority.
Kyon then turned to Ice, who stood with his mouth slightly open. "The deal," Kyon said. "I want my call. Tonight."
He walked out of the Circle, through the parting crowd, the steam closing behind him like a curtain. The adrenaline began to recede. The pain from his shoulder, his ribs, his head, rushed in, a symphony of damage. The ringing in his ears was louder than ever, a permanent scar on his psyche.
He had won. He had taken the name.
But as he returned to the silence of his cell, the hollow victory settled in his gut like a stone. He had climbed the mountain of prison violence, only to find a barren peak. Orlov was still in Saint Petersburg. The Consortium was still untouchable. His mother was still in the ground.
The Reckoning had a name. But it had only just begun. And the next battlefield would not be made of concrete, but of information, money, and shadows. He had the connection. Now, he had to use it.
He sat on his bunk in the dark, listening to the prison groan around him, and waited for Ice to bring him his prize: a single, illicit phone call that would reach into the world and pull a thread, hoping the whole tapestry would start to unravel.