The air in the cell corridor was rent with a deafening chorus of gunfire. Jack, who had just turned the corner, was greeted by a relentless volley of lead. Rex's cell was in sight, and so were the officers guarding it, their guns spitting fire. There was no time to think, only to react.The million-dollar system in Jack's head activated, flooding his senses with an avalanche of data: bullet trajectories, ricochet angles, officers' movement patterns. His agility, amplified by the neural implant, was supernatural. He hit the ground, rolling with the grace of a feline, bullets whizzing inches above his head. The cold linoleum felt strange against his skin.Rex, inside his cell, screamed as he heard the shooting. He cowered under the grimy metal bed, seeking shelter from the hell that was breaking loose a few feet away. Gunshots echoed off the concrete, ricocheting, creating a sonic chaos that vibrated the air.Jack fired his air pistol. Cork bullets, propelled by the force of the air, st

It was no surprise that by the following day, photos of Rex were everywhere. He had become the newest most-wanted killer. Though in that city, it wasn’t unusual to appear in such publications. Every day brought a new "most wanted."All it took was a glance at the endless list of people who had passed through that category in a single year.The police were just trying to do their job. However, the matter of the Euphoria app tournament was increasingly slipping from their control.The very fact that Ember had been murdered and Rex had been freed inside the same police station was the final straw. The governor demanded the mayor’s head on a silver platter and ordered his immediate removal.The whole world was talking about and criticizing that city in particular for its inability to stop the killings between civilians. Yet no one was prepared for the next battle. The tournament had just begun, and things were about to get worse.That morning, the world woke up to the faint glow of screen

The interior of Jean Graham's shattered bunker reeked of burnt gunpowder and molten metal. Morning light filtered through the cracks in the ceiling, revealing the chaos left by the battle. Graham, his clothes soaked in blood and his body lacerated, dragged himself back to his operations room. Every movement was agony—a price he was forced to pay in order to win a battle in the brutal war he had been thrown into. But a powerful survival instinct kept him going.Without hesitation, Graham threw himself onto a metal table, his eyes locked on the first aid kit. His bloodied hands, hardened by years of combat, pulled out a curved needle and thick thread. He stabbed the needle into his own flesh, beginning to stitch himself up, tugging at the torn skin. There were no groans, only a snort. Graham’s face was drenched in sweat and blood. Then he grabbed a syringe he had filled with a potent painkiller and injected it directly into his uninjured thigh, the cold liquid burning through his veins.

The following day arrived quickly over the city, where deceptively innocent people roamed the still-smoldering streets after the carnage unleashed between the men of Theo Walton and Jean Graham. Anyone who didn’t live there might have sworn it was a peaceful city. Yet the massacre had been total—a holocaust that left the area around Graham’s house like a twisted cemetery, with mutilated bodies that the police had only just begun to collect. In some cases, it was simply impossible to identify the dead due to their destroyed faces.However, in this city accustomed to horror, normalcy reestablished itself with surprising speed. No one dared to question. No one dared to point fingers.The Walton Mansion remained untouched. The police looked the other way. There were no investigations, no arrests, not even an official mention of the dozen burned armored vehicles or the bodies of elite bodyguards scattered across the asphalt. Theo Walton’s crime went unpunished—just another anecdote to whis

The stench of rain and wet earth was as thick as the mourning in the air. Kloe lay on the floor of an old abandoned warehouse, curled up, her arms wrapped around her knees. Rain hammered the metal roof like a drum, each drop a sharp beat that only amplified the despair of the moment. The screen of her phone, shattered from the fall when she heard the news of her best friend’s death, lay beside her. Its last image was the announcement of Lix’s match. She didn’t need to see it. She felt her best friend’s absence like an open wound in her soul. Lix was gone. She had blown her brains out to avoid getting her hands dirty.“It’s pointless,” Kloe murmured, her voice barely a broken whisper. “It’s all a joke. A fucking joke. We’re going to die. All of us. No matter what we do.”A shadow loomed over her. The smell of cheap perfume and hot metal, the same scent Jack carried, wrapped around her. She looked up. There he was—her last friend in this hell. His eyes, deep and filled with cold determi