The circular titanium arena floor of Crowncast Sub-Level Three groaned as mechanical gears rotated the shifting steel plates beneath Jax's feet.
Above the gladiatorial pit, three hundred massive holographic projection screens broadcast live betting odds to over one hundred million viewers across the continent.
"Welcome back to our exclusive emergency coverage, citizens and off-world investors," Dorian Cross's voice echoed through the stadium speakers with slick theatrical polish.
"Before us stands the captured rogue operative from the First Citadel, facing the lawful judgment of automated corporate security," Cross announced to the cheering virtual audience.
"The current betting pool stands at four million credits on whether our prisoner survives the second wave," the host declared with an oily laugh.
Jax wiped a smear of black grease from his cheek, shifting his grip on his twin void daggers while the floor plates beneath him tilted at a steep twenty-degree angle.
