The strategy session happened in her room, where the drones couldn't reach. Virgil opened the remote connection. The holographic images of Kivi and Rain appeared on the gray wall.

  "Fifteen and oh," Rain said without preamble. "That's not luck. That's skill plus experience plus clan resources."

  "Rauk's a classic brawler.” commented Kivi. “Reinforced skeleton. Enhanced muscle. Real advantage? Experience. Knows every trick, seen every desperation move."

  Beatrix studied the holographic display Kivi had sent. Rauk's previous fights played out in miniature—brutal, efficient, always ending the same way. His signature finishing move appeared again and again: the Mercy Stomp, where he crushed his downed opponent's skull with enhanced force.

  "The stomp," she said. "Tell me about it."

  "Gravitational manipulation combined with kinetic amplification," Rain explained. "Requires specific positioning and a two-second setup, but if it connects..." He made noises that wanted to be an explosion. "Fight's over."

  "How do I counter it?"

  "Don't be on the ground when he tries it," Kivi said, "Or be somewhere else when he commits. Setup has a tell—gravitational shimmer builds around his leg. Watch for it."

  "Rage Mode might let you tank the impact," Rain offered, but his expression suggested he didn't believe it.

  "Or kill you trying," Kivi added. "That much force, even with Rage Mode active..." She left the thought unfinished.

  "So don't get hit," Beatrix said. "Helpful."

  "There's more." Rain pulled up additional data. "Rauk runs standard Acheron combat suite—neural acceleration, combat prediction, enhanced reflexes. Nothing exotic, but all optimized to military spec. He's predictable in the way a textbook is predictable. You know what he's going to do, but that doesn't make it easy to stop."

  "Especially when he's better than you at everything," Kivi said bluntly. "Stronger, faster, more experienced, better equipped. On paper, you lose. Badly."

  "But?" Beatrix prompted, because there had to be a but or they wouldn't be here.

  "But he's fought fifteen times," Rain said. "Won every time. Never been seriously challenged. That kind of record makes you confident."

  "Overconfident," Kivi corrected. "He thinks you're nothing. Prove him wrong fast enough, might throw him off."

  "Eight seconds of surprise," Beatrix muttered. "Great."

  "Better than nothing." Rain straightened from the wall. "Look, the real advantage you have is that he's studied fighters. You're not a fighter yet. You're a scavenger with military hardware and no formal training. That makes you unpredictable."

  "Sloppy," Beatrix said.

  "Unpredictable," he insisted. "Virgil gives you tactical analysis no other fighter has access to. The Cyclops core gives you processing speed that can compete with his enhancements. And the Rage Mode..." He paused, clearly uncomfortable. "It's a trump card if you use it right."

  "If it doesn't kill me first."

  "There's that too."

  Kivi pulled up arena schematics. "Limbo's a disaster. Cracked floors, gravity wells, atmospheric corrosion. Rauk's fought here before—knows the layout. You're going in blind."

  "Virgil needs two minutes to map the space," Beatrix said. "That's two minutes of fighting without arena intelligence."

  "Survive the opening," Rain said. "Let Rauk's confidence work against him. When Virgil's mapping is complete, you'll have information he doesn't expect you to have. Environmental hazards, weak points, gravitational anomalies—all things you can exploit."

  "And if he crushes me in the first two minutes?"

  Kivi and Rain exchanged glances.

  "Then the Rage Mode isn't a trump card," Rain said quietly. "It's a survival tool. Use it early if you have to. Living through two minutes matters more than saving it for the perfect moment."

  "Thirty-one percent," Beatrix said. "Those are the odds?"

  "Those are the odds if everything goes right," Rain corrected. "But you've already beaten worse odds getting here."

  "Charon," Kivi said suddenly. "He analyzed you. Thorough scan."

  The words hung in the air, changing the tenor of the room.

  "Does Rauk know?" Beatrix asked. "Did Charon share the data?"

  "Maybe," Rain said. "Probably. But Rauk's the type to trust his own experience over data files. He's seen dozens of enhanced fighters come through Limbo. To him, you're just another one."

  "Until I'm not," Beatrix said.

  "Until you're not," he agreed.

  They spent another thirty minutes going through tactics, counter-strategies, contingency plans. Kivi provided technical specifications. Rain offered psychological insights. Virgil calculated probabilities and highlighted optimal decision trees.

  By the end, Beatrix had something resembling a plan:

  Phase one: Survive the opening while Virgil mapped the arena. Phase two: Bait Rauk into committing to the Mercy Stomp. Phase three: Counter during his vulnerability. Phase four: Exploit the opening.

  Simple. Direct. Probably impossible.

  "You've got this," Rain said as they prepared to sign off. His expression suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  "Use the hair app tomorrow," Kivi said seriously. "Image is armor. Don't forget."

  "I won't."

  "And Beatrix?" Rain's expression was uncharacteristically soft. "We'll be watching. You're not alone out there, even when it feels like you are."

  They left before she could respond. The transmission closed with a quiet click, leaving her alone again, but somehow less isolated than before.

  Virgil observed.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "You're saying they make me stronger?"

  "Yeah. I guess it does."

  The fighter common areas showed the diversity of preparation styles. In one corner, a Dis fighter performed strength demonstrations—pulling massive weights, shattering practice equipment, psyching themselves up with aggression and volume. Other fighters watched, some impressed, some dismissive.

  Near the meditation alcoves, Acheron warriors sat in perfect stillness. Rauk One-Eye among them, eyes closed, contract tattoos pulsing in slow rhythm. They looked like warrior monks awaiting divine instruction, peaceful and dangerous in equal measure.

  Malebolge representatives gathered around holographic displays, analyzing opponents with cold tactical precision. Team meetings, strategy sessions, political calculations. Violence as business.

  Her quarters were exactly as she'd left them—bare, functional, temporary. She locked the door behind her and sat on the edge of the cot, finally allowing herself to stop performing the role of fighter preparing for battle.

  Just Beatrix. Just exhausted.

  Virgil said.

  "I won't sleep."

  She pulled up her gear instead, checking it for the fourth or fifth time. The Cyclops core hummed steadily in her chest, power reserves at full. Rage Mode sat ready in her HUD, waiting to be activated. All her apps were loaded, optimized, prepared.

  Everything ready except her.

  Virgil said after a long silence.

  "Go ahead."

  She almost laughed. "Of dying? Of losing? Of failing Dante? All of it?"

  "Aren't you?"

  "About what?"

  Virgil paused, and for an AI, it felt almost human.

  Beatrix lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. "We're both all in, Virgil. That's the deal. We win together or we die together."

  "Has to be."

  She closed her eyes. "Yeah. It's acceptable. You're not just a tool anymore. Haven't been for a while. If I go down, at least I'm not going alone."

  They sat in silence after that—Beatrix and the ghost in her head, both facing the same uncertain tomorrow. The weight of it pressed down, heavier than exhaustion, heavier than fear.

  "Tell me something," Beatrix said finally. "The data you're collecting on me, the way you're learning through my experiences—are you becoming something more than you were designed to be?"

  "So you're evolving."

  She smiled despite everything. "Welcome to being human."

  "No. But you're not just code anymore either." She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling again. "We're both turning into something we weren't supposed to be."

  "Everything concerns me. But this?" She touched her chest where the Cyclops core hummed. "This feels right. Like we were always heading here."

  "Toward being something more than we started as."

  Virgil processed that.

  "You're saying talking to you calms me down?"

  "Keep me posted when you figure it out."

  Beatrix sat up, gave up on the idea of sleep. Instead, she moved through light stretches, warming up muscles that would face real combat in less than twelve hours. Her body felt good—better than it had any right to after the modifications, after the training, after everything.

  The Cyclops core had changed her in ways she was still discovering. Faster reflexes. Better integration with Virgil's tactical analysis. A sense of her own body as weapon rather than weakness.

  But it had also made her a target. Caliban's warning about hunters echoed in her mind. After the tournament—if she survived—she'd have to deal with people who wanted the hardware in her chest more than they cared about her life.

  One problem at a time.

  She pulled up the combat footage of Rauk's previous fights again, watching his patterns. The way he moved, anticipated, adapted. Fifteen victories told a story of experience over innovation, fundamentals over flashiness.

  Virgil noted.

  "I'm looking for something."

  "A tell. A pattern. Some habit he doesn't know he has."

  "Then I'm looking for something you can't see."

  She watched the way Rauk positioned himself before the Mercy Stomp. Watched the setup, the commitment, the follow-through. In every fight, the same approach—get the opponent down, execute the finish. Clean. Professional. Effective.

  But there was something in the setup. A brief moment where his weight shifted, where his attention focused on the dramatic execution rather than defensive positioning.

  Virgil said, catching her attention pattern.

  "Most fighters aren't working with an AI that processes in microseconds."

  "I'm suggesting that's our opening. When he's most confident, most committed, most certain of victory—that's when we hit him."

  "Yeah." Beatrix smiled grimly. "But if he thinks I'm already beaten, he won't see it coming."

  "Three percentage points might save my life."

  She continued stretching, working through katas she'd learned from training footage, integrating Virgil's tactical overlays with physical memory. Her body was ready. Her mind was as prepared as it could be.

  Whether that would be enough... she'd find out tomorrow.

  Dawn came too quickly.

  Beatrix woke—though calling it waking implied she'd slept—to pale light filtering through the small window. Her body felt alert despite exhaustion, adrenaline already beginning its pre-combat buildup.

  She sat up, ran through her morning routine on autopilot. Stretches. Warm-up exercises. Equipment check for the fifth or sixth time. Everything was ready. Had been ready for hours.

  The hair app activated when she thought about it, pulling her appearance into something more controlled. Not dramatic—just intentional. Less victim, more fighter.

  She studied her reflection in the small mirror. The person staring back looked harder than the scavenger who'd entered the tournament. More focused. More dangerous.

  Still not dangerous enough to make 34% odds into certainty.

  But maybe dangerous enough to surprise someone who thought she was already beaten.

  The text appeared in her HUD: Don't die. We have plans for after.

  Another from Rain: Trust Virgil. Trust yourself. Win.

  Nothing from Bodhi. But she felt his absence like a weight—not abandonment, but the space left by someone who cared too much to speak.

  She sent back a single word to Kivi and Rain: Trying.

  The walk to the arena staging area should have felt longer. Should have given her more time to prepare, to think, to find some reservoir of courage she hadn't already exhausted.

  Instead, it passed in heartbeats.

  Other fighters moved through the corridors, each heading to their own staging areas. Some looked confident. Others terrified. Most fell somewhere between—professionals doing a dangerous job, same as any other day.

  Beatrix passed the young non-aligned fighter in the corridor. He nodded to her. She nodded back. By tonight, one or both of them would be dead. The acknowledgment sat between them, unspoken but understood.

  The staging corridors branched off toward different arena entrances. She took the one marked with her fighter designation, following the path that would lead to the floor.

  Virgil reported.

  "Stop checking. Everything's fine."

  "Semantic arguments right now?"

  "You're managing my anxiety?"

  The corridor opened into a wider staging chamber. Through the entrance ahead, she could hear the crowd—thousands of voices, a wall of noise waiting to swallow her whole.

  "Shut up, Virgil."

  She stood at the entrance, looking out at the blinding light beyond. Somewhere in that light was Rauk One-Eye, already waiting. Somewhere in the crowd were Kivi and Rain, watching. Somewhere beyond the arena entirely was Dante, dying slowly while she fought for the money to save him.

  Everything led to this moment. Every choice, every sacrifice, every compromise.

  Virgil said quietly.

  "The Stygian contract won't let me walk away."

  "Not pride. Dante."

  Beatrix stared at the light. "Yeah. It does."

  She thought about Dante and the stupid sticker and Bodhi and Mom and Rain’s smile and the starlobe and Kivi’s hair and her hair and and and…

  Then stopped thinking about it.

  She tightened her fists and stepped into the light.