The next two months settled into a grim routine. Training. Fighting. Endless drills that made no sense. Every few days, they'd take my blood, my urine, strip my genes apart.
I felt like a lab rat. But what choice did I have? At least I made two friends there. They gave me my own room, decent meals—small mercies.
Truth is? I excelled. So much that my very presence pissed off those veteran criminals who'd been given a second chance.
Of course it did. How could they stomach an 18-year-old rookie outpacing them?
One of them was Alex—this huge, tattooed guy. Later, I realized the ink sprawling across his arms was supposed to be a peacock, though his shirt hid most of it.
He cornered me at lunch one day, looming over my tray with the energy of a dad who'd just caught me banging his daughter. "You're gettin' real cocky, kid. Cocky bastards don't last long here."
Didn't ask to sit. Just slammed his tray down across from me. Three others followed—two dudes in their 20s and a woman who looked younger but, well, women lie better about age. Soon our table was so packed the green-haired guy with the lip piercing had to drag over another chair.
I kept my spoon hovering near my mouth, eyeing them carefully. "Mind telling me what this is about?"
The big tattooed guy didn't hesitate. "Only the top four who survive this hellhole's training get to enter the Hero Selection. We've been prepping for a year."
"Just four?"
The girl beside me smirked. "Playing dumb, lamb? Don't bother. We're wolves here."
The moment those words left her mouth, one of the other guys started howling like a damn wolf. Yeah, these psychos were definitely on something. A bunch of unhinged freaks had me surrounded.
Their laughter cut through the mess hall—until the tattooed mountain of a man leaned in. "We're the top four here. And we will compete this year. All of us. So do yourself a favor, kid—step aside nicely. Try again next year."
"You could wait till next year too."
Silence. Then Broccoli-Hair lost his shit, snatching up a fork like it was a shiv. "The fuck you just say, you little prick? Everyone here respects us. Who the hell are you to tell us what to do? You even hear the bullshit coming outta your mouth?
The big guy held up a hand, clearly the leader of this pack. "Put the fork down, Gabel." He turned to me, all fake patience. "Look, kid, I get it—young guys are always in a hurry. Case in point: this broccoli-headed dumbass."
"Hey!" Gabel—the green-haired guy—glared, but shut up fast.
Thank god. At least me and the big guy agreed on one thing.
Alex kept going, voice dropping to a growl. "But he's right about one thing. Whether you're aiming for the Heroes' List or just surviving here, You respect those above you. Even if their orders taste like shit." He leaned in, knuckles cracking. "So let me say it again: Don't try to take our spots.Or we'll take yours. Permanently."
The big guy stood up, and his crew followed like obedient dogs. No doubt about it—that was a threat. And I hate threats, especially from people I already can't stand.
But...
"I'm a reasonable guy. I'll make you a deal—I won't fight for a top-four spot... on one condition."
Alex stopped, turning his head slightly. "You've got guts. I'm listening."
I took a slow bite of rice, locking eyes with him before dropping the offer:
"Let me fuck that girl for a week. Do that, and I won't lift a finger to compete for your rank."
Just as I expected, the girl reacted first. Her teeth clenched so hard I thought they'd crack, her face twisted with barely-contained fury.
"You little shit! I'll rip your fucking balls off!"
As the girl lunged at me, several of her fingers suddenly morphed into thick metal chains, whipping through the air like steel tentacles. I couldn't tell if she meant to strike me or bind me—but I deflected the first two chains with nothing but my damn spoon.
The disbelief on her face was priceless. I couldn't help grinning. There's nothing more fun than watching your enemies oscillate between terror and utter confusion.
What can I say? I've always had a taste for… entertainment. Doesn't matter who's on the other end—stronger, weaker, whatever. As long as they put up a fight and don't bore me, I'll play along.