The roar of the crowd in the Zero Point Arena was very loud, a wave of sound that vibrated right through Shane's bones, even in the plush, sound-dampened luxury of his private box.
Laser lights, the color of toxic waste and cheap synth-booze, sliced through the cigar smoke that clung to the air like a greasy shroud, painting fleeting, grotesque patterns on the faces of the frenzied spectators below.
The Zero Point Arena wasn't just big; it was a colossal, multi-tiered behemoth carved into the underbelly of the city, a veritable cathedral to violence and desperation.
Shane leaned back, a glass of expensive, dark liquor swirling in his hand, his gaze sweeping over the scene.
Imagine a giant, hungry maw, lined with multiple layers of viewing platforms and private boxes like his own, that rose dizzyingly high, disappearing into the smoky, synth-haze far above.
Down on the main floor, it wasn't just one fighting pit, but several.
