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No room for perfection.

Just chaos.

Rage.

Vengeance.

I step forward with absolute certainty, crossing the boundary between transit corridor and combat arena with deliberate commitment to whatever consequences follow. The heat intensifies immediately, environmental confirmation of proximity to extended physical exertion rather than simple atmospheric conditioning.

The fighting pits of Level Minus Zero await with deadly promise—the first genuine challenge beyond ceremonial introduction, the first true test of whether preparation meets opportunity at the precise moment of convergence.

The first step toward reclaiming my Riot.

THIRTEEN

THE FIGHTING CAGE

~JINX~

The fighting cage materializes before me like a nightmare made real—massive steel bars soaring fifteen feet high, forming a perfect circle illuminated by harsh spotlights that leave no corner in shadow.

The industrial flooring beneath my boots bears the unmistakable stains of battles long concluded, blood having seeped between metal grates despite institutional cleaning protocols.

I step fully into the arena, oddly calm despite the obvious trap I've walked into. This environment doesn't surprise me—it's precisely what institutional patterns suggested awaited beyond the heated corridor. What does surprise me is the audience.

Beyond the steel bars, Alpha figures pace and prowl with predatory intensity—not the controlled violence of institutional subjects, but something far more disturbing.

These Alphas have lost whatever humanity they once possessed, reduced to feral creatures that bear only passing resemblance to the men they might once have been.

"Holy shit," Maverick mutters through our connection, voice tight with uncharacteristic alarm. "Those aren't standard institutional subjects. They've completely devolved."

I crack my neck to release building tension, the satisfying pop offering momentary relief as I scan my surroundings more thoroughly.

The cage appears to have only one entrance—the doorway I've just passed through, which has already sealed behind me with pneumatic precision.

"I'm running simulations on potential exit strategies," Maverick continues, analytical mind processing escape scenarios even as I focus on more immediate threats. "The structural integrity of the cage appears significantly enhanced from standard institutional designs. Breaking through would require resources beyond current inventory."

"Not my priority right now," I murmur, attention fixed on the creatures surrounding my prison.

The Alphas prowl with disturbing synchronicity, their movements carrying none of the tactical calculation or strategic assessment typically displayed by institutional subjects.

These men—if they can still be called that—operate on pure instinct, reduced to their most primal drives without the tempering influence of higher cognitive function.

Their eyes glow with unnatural brightness in the harsh lighting—pupils blown wide with whatever chemical cocktail Press has used to induce this feral state. Muscles ripple beneath skin marked with institutional tattoos and what appear to be self-inflicted wounds, evidence of systematic breakdown occurring over extended periods rather than recent degradation.

I scan each face methodically, fighting against growing tightness in my chest as I search for familiar features among the uniformly savage expressions. If Press has reduced Riot to this state—if the man who once touched my face with impossible gentleness now prowls among these feral creatures—the tactical parameters of my mission would require significant recalibration.

But as my gaze travels the full circumference of my circular prison, relief washes through me with unexpected intensity.

None of these creatures bears Riot's distinctive tattoos, none carries his specific scent signature beneath the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and institutional chemicals.

My Alpha isn't among them.

The realization brings a flicker of hope—a dangerous emotion in the current tactical situation, but impossible to suppress completely.

If he's not among these feral Alphas, he must be elsewhere in the level hierarchy, potentially still within retrieval parameters despite six years of institutional conditioning.

My momentary distraction nearly costs me everything.