The lights above dimmed to blood red.
A low hum echoed from the metallic walls, growing louder with every passing second until it pulsed like a heartbeat. The weapons in the arena shimmered faintly—tools of death, waiting patiently. At the far edge of the circular battleground, the voice returned.
"This is it. The final confrontation. The last breath of the game."
A deafening silence followed.
Then—
"Begin."
Neither Ethan nor Violet moved.
They stood ten paces apart, weapons at the ready, frozen not by fear, but something deeper: hesitation. Not about the fight—but about who they would have to become to win it.
Ethan's sword felt heavier now, not from its weight but from the moment's gravity. He stared into Violet's eyes—sharp, calculating, yet uncertain. He saw himself reflected in them. Not as a monster. Not yet.
"Are you really going to do it?" she asked, her voice low, almost hoarse.
"I have to," Ethan said. "And so do you."
Violet's fingers twitched against the hilt of her dagger. Her lips parted as if she might say something else—something real—but then, with a sharp breath, she sprang forward.
The silence shattered.
Their weapons met in a metallic crash, sparks flying as sword met steel. Ethan blocked the first strike, barely pivoting in time to avoid a second slash to the neck. Violet was fast—faster than she had been in the maze, or in the werewolf game. She moved like someone with nothing left to lose.
And maybe that was true.
Ethan countered with a sweeping arc, his sword slamming into the arena floor when Violet twisted out of reach. She kicked off the wall behind him, flipping over his head and landing a blow to his shoulder with the hilt of her blade.
He grunted in pain, stumbling forward, but refused to fall.
Violet stood several feet away now, breathing heavily, her body trembling—not from exhaustion, but from restraint.
"You're holding back," Ethan said, spitting blood from his mouth. "Why?"
Violet hesitated. "Because you're the only person who ever made me believe I was more than what life gave me."
She said it like a confession. A curse and a blessing all at once.
Ethan's grip tightened. "Then fight me like I'm your equal. Not someone you pity."
Her eyes hardened. That was all he needed.
She attacked again—faster this time, blade slashing upward toward his throat. He ducked, rolled, and swung back with a precise strike that grazed her ribs. She gasped but didn't falter.
Every second brought them closer to their limits.
Every strike dug deeper into their bond.
This wasn't a duel of strangers. It was a collision of broken souls, forged in the same fire.
Flashback – Violet, Age 18
She remembered standing outside a gas station with a stolen hoodie and a bag of chips. She'd just conned a man into buying her a sandwich. He thought he was helping a lost girl. She knew better.
But for a brief moment, when he smiled and asked if she had somewhere to go, she almost said yes. She almost told the truth.
That man had the same look in his eyes Ethan had now. That reluctant compassion. That dangerous hope.
And she hated it.
Because people who believed in you always ended up disappointed—or dead.
Ethan gritted his teeth as Violet's dagger scored a shallow cut across his chest.
He kicked her backward, creating space. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with blood. His legs ached. His breathing was ragged. But he was still standing.
Still alive.
And he wanted to win.
But not because of the money.
Not because of revenge.
Because for once—just once—he wanted to prove to himself that he could rise above everything life threw at him. That he wasn't just a survivor, but a fighter. A champion.
A symbol that even the forgotten could become something more.
They clashed again.
Fury. Desperation. Guilt.
Violet screamed, driving Ethan back with a flurry of rapid stabs, tears stinging her eyes as she fought against every instinct to stop. She didn't want to kill him.
But she would.
She had to.
Because if she didn't, she'd be the one left behind.
Again.
Ethan parried, barely deflecting a blow aimed at his stomach, then pivoted and struck her across the shoulder with the flat of his blade. She cried out, stumbling, and fell to one knee.
He hesitated.
And that was his mistake.
Violet lunged upward, slicing a deep gash into his thigh. He shouted and fell back, one leg buckling.
For a moment, they both lay there—bleeding, gasping, broken.
Then Violet crawled to her feet, her dagger trembling in her hand.
"You should've finished me," she whispered.
Ethan, still on the ground, looked up at her—not with hatred, but with sorrow.
"I couldn't," he said. "Not yet."
Violet raised the dagger, hands shaking violently. "You'll lose if you don't."
"Then I'll lose."
"No, you won't," she said, suddenly fierce. "You can't. Because you're not like me. You believe in things. In people. That's why you'll survive this."
She dropped the dagger.
It hit the ground with a dull clang.
Ethan blinked. "What are you—?"
"I'm done running. Done surviving for the sake of surviving."
She stepped back.
"I wanted to win… but I wanted you to win more."
Ethan stared in disbelief. "You don't have to do this—"
"Don't waste it," she interrupted. "You fight. You win. And when you get that power—whatever it is—you do something good with it."
Then she closed her eyes.
And waited.
Ethan's sword was still in his hand.
His arm trembled.
Could he?
Should he?
The arena fell into silence again.
The voice returned.
"Only one may walk out alive. The choice is yours, Ethan."
He looked at Violet—quiet, defiant, ready.
And he made his decision.
He rose to his feet.