The room stank of sweat, blood, and cheap disinfectant. Dim fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly white shadows across the stained walls.
Sen sat slouched in a rusted metal chair, wrists shackled to the table in front of him. Dried blood crusted his knuckles, his shirt torn from the struggle. His lip was split, but he barely felt it.
Across from him, a detective mid 40s, balding, and reeking of coffee sighed as he flipped through a thick case file. (Charges... illegal surgical enhancements... Christ, he's got titanium in his goddamn hands.)
"You really did a number out there, huh?" The detective's voice was calm, almost tired. "12 opposite gangs. Twenty districts. Indiscriminate fire from every block."
He massaged his temples. "274 bodies confirmed in the sweep. Could be closer to 475, with the Tongs dumping meat in the river. That's gang members, their bosses, a couple dozen civilians caught in the crossfire, and Thirty-five of our own, including the Special Squads."
He sighed again, the weariness palpable. "The Specials couldn't contain it after taking too many losses. 317 injured people—mostly innocent bystanders—clogging up every triage center in the city. The state had to roll out the 'Iron Hound' unit just to stop the goddamn shooting. You turned half the city into a goddamn war zone."
Sen didn't respond, just tilted his head back as he stared at the flickering light above.
"You know how this ends, right?" The detective leaned in. "Death row. No deals, no appeals. You're done."
Sen exhaled through his nose, barely acknowledging him. He'd heard it all before.
The detective waited, then shook his head.
"You're a real piece of work, Deadly Fist." He slammed the folder shut and stood up.
"Enjoy your last few days of freedom."
As the detective stepped out, two officers entered. One of them grabbed Sen's cuffs and yanked him to his feet. "Time to face the music."
Sen smirked. "Took you idiots long enough."
-Supreme Courtroom-
The courtroom was packed. Journalists, victims' families, officers everyone who had a reason to hate him was there. Cameras clicked as he was led in, shackles clinking with each step.
He walked with the same confidence as he had in the ring, head high, shoulders loose, like he was just there to pass the time.
At the front, the judge sat behind an elevated podium, flanked by stern-faced officials. The judicator, a tall, thin man with rimless glasses stood and cleared his throat.
"Mr. Wu, also known as 'The Deadly Fist' in the underground fighting circuit, you are hereby charged with multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to commit organized crime, domestic terrorism against state assets, resisting arrest and possession of illegal, internalized-surgical weaponry. Your actions during the liquidation of local Tongs and seizure of controlled territory resulted in the deaths of law enforcement officers and innocent civilians."
Sen leaned back slightly, arms resting on his lap, his green eyes scanning the crowd.
He looked completely unfazed, as if the entire process bored him.
The judicator frowned but continued. "Given the severity of your crimes, the court finds you guilty on all charges. You are sentenced to death—execution to be carried out within the next three years. Any final words before this ruling is made official?"
Sen let out a slow breath, then finally spoke. "Yeah."
He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the judge. "Hurry the hell up."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some gasped. Others cursed his name.
The judge slammed his gavel.
"Take him away."
The armored transport rumbled down the highway, cutting through the neon-lit skyline of China's megacity.
Sen sat in the back, wrists and ankles locked in titanium restraints, surrounded by armed guards. The prison they were taking him to wasn't just any prison. It was Baikal Blacksite, a maximum-security facility buried beneath a mountain, rumored to be escape-proof. The guards barely spoke. They knew who he was. Knew what he'd done. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional radio chatter.
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After hours on the road, the convoy reached the heavily fortified entrance. Towers lined the perimeter, their floodlights slicing through the dark. Automatic turrets tracked their arrival, following every movement.
As the transport slowed to a stop, one of the guards finally spoke.
"This is where monsters like you belong." With that, he was tossed into a cell lined with reinforced glass, lasers marking boundaries he wasn't supposed to cross. No bars to break, no weak spots to exploit.
Sen sat on the stiff mattress, exhaling. It wasn't the first cage he'd been in. But something about this place felt different.
Within the first week news spread quickly in Baikal Blacksite, especially when it involved someone like Sen, known as The Deadly Fist.
Even though he was shackled like everyone else, his reputation always seemed to be a step ahead. And legends tend to attract trouble.
Meet the Hungry Tiger. Real name - Bao Jie. Once an MMA champion, now a lunatic. He gained notoriety for breaking opponents in illegal fights just for kicks. Rumor had it he'd taken out two guys in a cage match in Thailand and wore their teeth as a trophy.
Inside Baikal? He ruled the yard like it was his own training ground. He wasn't thrilled to hear there was a new top dog in the cage. Sen had just wrapped up his daily push-up routine when he heard the unmistakable sound of boots approaching—fast, loud, and full of swagger. He didn't bother glancing up.
"You the so-called 'Deadly Fist' everyone's dick-riding over?" The voice was cocky, typical of guys who think they're more important than they really are.
Sen pushed himself up slowly, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and finally looked. Bao Jie stood there, shirtless, a tiger tattoo sprawling across his chest, snarling just like him. His muscles were tense, stance relaxed. A fighter's physique. His eyes starving. And they'd never be satisfied.
"You talk too much," Sen replied, cracking his neck. "You here to pay respect or lose a limb?"
Bao smirked. "You're nothing. Just another loudmouth street fighter. Let's see what those fists can really do."
He unleashed a low Muay Thai kick aimed at Sen's lead leg. Quick. Precise. Capable of shattering a femur if it connected. But Sen didn't back away. He stepped into it. Their shins collided like two baseball bats. A crack rang out across the yard. Then came a scream.
Bao hit the ground, clutching his leg, howling like an injured dog. His shin was bent at a wrong angle—bone bulging under skin like it wanted out. Sen stood over him, expression flat. "Blame your luck for being an idiot." The yard was dead silent. Inmates frozen mid-rep, guards watching from the towers with hands near their rifles. No one moved.
Sen crouched next to Bao's squirming body, voice low and casual. "Call yourself a Tiger? Shoulda gone with house cat."
He stood back up, turned, and walked off like it was nothing but a warm-up. Then months passed. The routine of prison life was monotonous. Wake up, eat, exercise, avoid the idiots who thought they could test him, sleep. Repeat. He didn't bother making friends. Most of these men wouldn't be around long enough to matter.
But something changed. The year was coming to an end, and suddenly, the prison announced 'special meals' for all death-row inmates.
Anything they wanted. Steak. Lobster. High-end dishes that no prisoner should have access to.
Sen sat at his cell's table, staring at the plate in front of him. A perfectly cooked steak, mashed potatoes on the side, red wine poured into a crystal glass.
He looked around. Other inmates were already eating, some laughing, some too starved to question it.
Sen, however, leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. "Tch, this ain't some charity." Sitting at the small table and poking at his steak with the tip of his fork, Sen took his time. It was cooked perfectly tender, juicy, with a sear that only someone with real skill could manage. The mashed potatoes were rich, buttery, like they'd been made by a professional chef. The wine, though he didn't really care about it, had a smooth taste, the kind you might find in a high-end restaurant.
He could feel his stomach grumbling, but he wasn't in any hurry. The meal was a luxury in this hellhole. The kind of luxury that usually came right before an execution. "It would make sense", Sen thought, "If they were giving all of us one last meal before they took us out".
But there was no official announcement. No last rites. No orders to prepare for the end. Just this strange, sudden feast, like they were treating prisoners to a farewell dinner without the decency to tell them they were about to be executed.
Sen didn't trust it. Prisoners didn't get nice things without a price.
The guards, stationed outside the glass of his cell, didn't seem worried. They were just doing their job, paying him no more attention than they did any other day. He'd seen their faces before—blank, bored, detached. They couldn't care less what happened to him or anyone else. They were just cogs in the machine.
Sen narrowed his eyes, chewing slowly and took another sip of the wine, letting it slide down his throat, and leaned back in his chair.
"What's the real game here?" The other prisoners were indulging, eating as if it were just another day. But Sen couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the kind of meal you served before sending someone to the execution chamber. Not without warning. Not without an official announcement. His instincts had never steered him wrong before.
And right now, every part of him screamed that something was coming. And it wasn't going to be good.
-Underground Ride-
It wasn't long before the lights flickered—once, twice, and then the heavy metal doors of their cells were opened with a slow, grinding screech.
A guard stepped in, his face grim, his eyes scanning each inmate with professional detachment. No words were exchanged. Just the quiet, unmistakable order. "Get moving. Now."
Sen stood without a word, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. The food had been good, but his body still bore the scars of his previous fights. He walked out into the dimly lit hallway, the sound of his boots echoing off the walls as he made his way toward the elevator at the far end.
As he passed other cells, he noticed the same confusion on the faces of the other prisoners—half-dazed, half-intrigued, all of them wondering why they were being moved. The usual chaos of the prison had been replaced with an eerie calm. Not even the guards were speaking, their faces as impassive as the concrete walls they walked beside.
When they reached the elevator, the large metal doors slid open with a deep hiss. Inside, heavy armored soldiers stood at attention, their weapons gleaming in the low light. These weren't the regular prison guards—these were military-grade, armed to the teeth, their visors reflecting the dim overhead lights. The prisoners were pushed into the elevator, the doors closing with a clang, sealing them inside.
The lift began its slow descent, moving deeper underground. The walls were lined with thick, reinforced steel, and the sound of the elevator's mechanisms grinding against the shaft was the only thing breaking the silence. Sen didn't speak, didn't ask any questions. He just kept his eyes on the others, studying their reactions.
They had no idea what was happening either. None of them seemed to realize what was coming. Sen had seen enough in his life to know that when a system like this shifted, when something big was about to go down, it never ended well for the people at the bottom.
Minutes passed, the elevator descending deeper and deeper into the earth. The temperature dropped, the air becoming stale, suffocating. Sen could feel the pressure, the weight of being so far beneath the surface. It was like the world above had been left behind, and they were being taken somewhere... else.
Finally, with a thud, the elevator came to a stop. The doors opened to reveal a long corridor, lit by harsh fluorescent lights, leading to a massive reinforced door. Beyond it, he could see the shadows of figures moving.
The soldiers motioned for them to move forward.
Sen followed without question. What lay beyond that door was a world entirely different from the hellish confines of the prison they had come from.
The room was vast, larger than any gymnasium, maybe even a small football stadium. The air hummed with a strange energy, thick and electric. It was lined with high-tech equipment, computers flashing data, cables running through the floor like arteries feeding a heart that kept the place alive. At the far end, a massive structure loomed—a Gateway that was unlike anything Sen had ever seen.
It was dark. Its surface absorbing all light. It shimmered with an unnatural aura, as though the very fabric of reality bent around it. The air around it pulsed with an ominous hum, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in his bones.
Researchers, dressed in lab coats, were frantically typing on terminals, muttering to each other in hushed tones, their voices lost in the sterile, mechanical atmosphere. The place was a hive of activity, but the focus of everyone in the room was the 'Gateway', the dark pool that sat in the center of it all.
It wasn't just the scientists and researchers who surrounded it. High-ranking officials, military generals, state senators, all stood in an observatory room above the Gateway, their faces pressed against the reinforced glass, watching the proceedings with cold, calculating eyes.
Some of them spoke in low tones, pointing and gesturing as if they were watching a parade of livestock, not human beings about to be sacrificed.
As the prisoners were lined up in front of the Gateway, mechanical arms came to life, moving massive pods into position.
These pods were sleek, streamlined, with a smooth, reflective surface that made them look like something out of a science fiction movie. Each pod was large enough to hold a man, a single occupant who would be propelled toward the center of that dark void at unimaginable speeds.
The researchers were shouting instructions, technicians feverishly checking monitors, ensuring that every last detail was perfect. Everything was being prepared for the launch.
The last thing he heard before they sealed the pod was the distant sound of the generals and senators murmuring behind the glass.
"Launch sequence engaged." Then he was thrust into the void. The room disappearing as he approached the inner edge.