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The first hit was clean. A right cross, sharp and surgical. Marcus rolled with it, letting the impact twist his stance instead of fighting it. Not bad for a keyboard warrior.

They circled each other like old dance partners, muscle memory kicking in from whatever combat training the system had given them. Reiss’s grin was all teeth. “You always did like foreplay.”

Marcus ducked under a hook and answered with a rib shot that nearly dropped the system’s framerate. “You always needed it more than I did.”

They moved in tight circles, breathing hard. Synthetic sweat, artificial light, but the heat between them was real. The impact when gloves connected. The burn in their lungs. The shudder of impact.

Two men rendered perfectly. physically idealized, emotionally raw. Punches became symbols. Each dodge a memory. Each strike a warning. Each moment an answer to the question, who gets to control who.

Reiss threw a sloppy feint, telegraphed like bad code. Marcus walked right into it, jaw snapping back. He staggered, spit blood that glitched red pixels in the air. Then laughed. “Is that your mating display?”

Reiss smirked. “That was just the demo. This is the full download.” He lunged.

They locked up, gloves tangled, bodies pressed chest to chest. Heat beats synchronizing through synthetic skin. Muscles straining against muscles. Pure animal friction in a digital cage.

Marcus shoved him back, eyes burning with fury. The whole ring swayed like bad netcode trying to compensate for lag.

“You’re not in love with her,” Marcus snarled between punches. “You’re in love with your own reflection. She’s just a higher resolution mirror.” He threw a hook that landed like punctuation.

Reiss reeled for a second. “Cope harder, you worthless data janitor.” He countered.

They went at it again. Fists flying, breath ragged, blood and pixels mixing in the air. Violence as honest conversation. Both of them getting off on the pure fucking reality of it. It was the first real thing either had felt in months.

Marcus landed a clean jab.

Reiss took it. Spit blood and smiled.

No one won. They just stopped—eventually—when the ring lights flickered to blue.

Time’s up.

Reiss dropped his gloves, breathing hard but still grinning. “All that effort,” he said, voice soft as a blade between ribs, “just to lose anyway.”

Marcus leaned against the ropes, panting, bruised. “You’re right, Elias.” His grin was savage. “Too bad everyone knows you’re just a script kiddie with daddy’s credit card.”

Reiss moved like fast-forward footage, crossing the ring and slamming Marcus back against the lockers. Face inches away, close enough to taste the synthetic breath.

“She’s writing your death into a fucking jingle.”

Marcus didn’t move.

Reiss leaned in even closer, now lip to ear, voice low, delicate. Intimate like rot in silk. “Your name won’t even be in the track metadata.”

He pulled back, grinning like someone who’d just bought the patent on death itself. Then turned and walked out, leaving Marcus bleeding against the lockers.

The gym settled into silence like a tomb.