The man on the sand was still alive.
That was the first thing Neo registered after the blood. Half his chest had been opened, ribs glistening under the red light while his fingers clawed weakly at the ground. Across from him, the winner lifted one boot and pressed it down over the wound, slow enough for the crowd to grasp what was coming. They loved it.
The Red Pit shook with their voices. Men in expensive coats bellowed beside women with jeweled fingers. Drunks hammered cups against iron tables. Private guards minded the exits with bored faces while screens above the arena flashed odds, fighter names, wound counts, and the sums already staked on the match. Zone 0 spilled violence because people were hungry, angry, or desperate. Here, they paid for better seats to watch it.
