“Ouch!” Apollo yelped as Yao jabbed him in the right arm. “If you can hit that hard with one arm, why did you get in there and fight? Is that how you repay someone who does you a favor?”
“Favor? You almost lost, Haisha! ” Yao shot back, eyes on Apollo’s bruises. The cuts were already blooming purple—blood sliced at the lip, a fresh black eye forming from those knee strikes. All that pain, and Yao’s jaw tightened thinking about what it meant for them.
“ENGLISH, Yao. ENGLISH. We are not Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker.”
Yao snorted, relief threading his laugh. “Loser, man. Shībài zhě means loser.” He let his shoulders drop. He glanced over to where Nike, Iceberg, and Miho sat, then put his good arm around Apollo’s shoulder. “Thanks, bro. My family’s safe.”
Apollo’s gaze flicked to Myers, who was being fussed over by Tishan—bandages, soot, and a proud, smirking look that made Apollo want to punch something else. He forced a grin and clapped Yao lightly on the back. “We’re brothers. I’ve got you.”
They started moving back toward the crowd. Yao jabbed Apollo again—this time playfully—trying to break the tension. “That was too close. If I’d known you were that out of shape—”
“Not out of shape,” Apollo muttered.
“Apollo, dude—he dominated two-thirds of that fight. You won by ring-out. Not a knockout. Not a submission. I hope you don’t have to keep doing me favors like that. With Dr. Ray missing, I gotta count on my organic parts to heal for now.”
“Dr. Ray is missing?” Apollo’s head snapped up.
“Where the hell have you been?” Yao’s voice went flat. “Everyone knows Dr. Ray’s been missing for weeks—months. You serious?” He kept pace, surprised and impatient all at once. He watched Apollo slide his eyes to the side, avoid the question, then start walking faster. For a beat, Yao remembered the last time all three were together—it wasn’t a friendly checkup. That was two years ago. Could Apollo still be holding a grudge at the man who made them?
“Mad?” Apollo said finally, though his eyes didn’t meet Yao’s. “Nah. I promised him I’d keep my nose clean. He helped get me into my foster family. They’re good people.”
“So you were just scared to talk to him?” Yao pressed.
“Why do you care?” Apollo asked, the answer a little sharp.
Because without Dr. Ray, all of you fake humans will die eventually.
The voice arrived like an explosion of sunlight. A bubbly, too-loud energy that made Yao’s skin prickle and Apollo’s talisman warm.
“Princess?” Yao’s voice cracked on the name. She’d shown up exactly when nobody wanted to be noticed. Princess stood as tall as they did—slim, with strong Nigerian features and a long braid she flicked back like a banner. Her light-blue dress matched the club’s aesthetic, but the way she carried herself said more reporter than runway.
“So, the Hermit returns to help Robin Hood?” she sang. “What are you two robots doing back on the fight circuit?”
“Oh, great,” Apollo groaned. “Underground’s very own wannabe Lois Lane is on the case.”
“YOU BET!” Princess punched his arm and clapped like a delighted child.
“WHY is everyone hitting me after a fight?” Apollo complained, rubbing his bruised shoulder.
“Why do you keep calling me a wannabe? You know how many humans are trusted with the fact that you… robots—”
“Androids,” Yao and Apollo corrected together, reflexive and almost embarrassed.
“Ugh, please. Y’all treat ‘android’ like it’s the N-word,” Princess said, rolling her eyes.
“It is to us,” Yao muttered, trying to pick up his pace. He could smell an interview pressing in; Princess belonged in headlines and chaos, and Yao hated chaos.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Princess said, unfazed. “But you’re not androids either. By definition, an android is a robot built to look human. You’re more like cyborgs.”
“Except we were created, not modified,” Yao shot back, finding his footing in the argument.
“Yeah, that’s why I made you guys my business.” Princess tapped her phone like a badge. “And my blog made bank off you.”
“You mean by writing clickbait?” Apollo snapped. “You know I think we should get a cut of that profit.”
“Why, jealous? I bust my butt covering these fights. The Ro-Synthetic Organism Community eats my stuff up. Everyone else thinks it’s fiction—Matrix, Fight Club—whatever. They don’t know the truth.” She tilted her head, sharp as a reporter smelling blood. “And you two? You’re the stars.”
“And we’re the ones doing the fighting,” Yao said. “You get paid. We nearly die.”
“No one told you to join the So-High sanctioned underground league.”
“And no one told you to write about it. If the world found out for real, they’d dissect you both. You don’t care.”
“Oh, Yao, you’re so serious. Why can’t you be more like Apollo? Look—some humans are the ones keeping these leagues alive. After those stunts you used to pull? Come on.” Princess waved a hand like she was dismissing the risk. “If people knew what you were, there’d be lines at the labs.”
They reached the back exit and found Bo on break, leaning against the doorway and looking like a wet shadow of menace. He glanced at Apollo, then at Yao—then smirked.
“Someone looks like they took more than they could chew,” he said, opening the door with a foul gust that made them cough. “Don’t let me see you back here again. Next time you won’t make it inside.”
“No kidding with your odor,” Yao muttered. “I’ll be dead before I make it back in next time.”
Princess pushed past, camera-phone already up, eyes glittering with the next story: Myers’ tactics, Apollo’s comeback, Dr. Ray’s disappearance. She had a way of turning private bruises into public paragraphs, into a narrative that followed them home.
Outside, the alley smelled like trash and rain and something that had been rotting a long time. The city felt colder now, thinner. Apollo sagged against the alley wall, glove still sticky with blood and water. The burns on his shoes stung with every step.
“Are you okay?” Yao asked softly. They’d left the crowd, the lights, the roaring—left the warm glow of the Ice Palace to the people who lived for spectacle.
Apollo closed his eyes a moment, feeling the weight of the night settle. He thought of Tishan’s smile—half pity, half triumph—and of Myers’ blunt, wet grin. He pictured Dr. Ray as a faded face in a lab coat—absent and quiet. If the doctor didn’t show, what did that mean for them? For Apollo’s ability to hold on to the control that kept his fire from burning until it was a problem?
“Yeah,” Apollo said finally. His voice was low, steady enough. “We got through it. Yao’s family is safe. That’s what matters.”
Yao’s good hand squeezed Apollo’s shoulder. “Next time, less theatrics. I’m not losing sleep over your redemption arcs.”
“You kept my family safe,” Apollo replied. “You saved me.”
They moved away from the club, footsteps splashing through puddles, toward a city that didn’t care whether they lived, or fought, or saved each other. Princess jogged to keep up, already composing the headline in her head. Behind them, Bo flicked his cigarette and muttered to himself. Near the corner, the glow of Nike’s cigar cut a black silhouette against the Ice Palace’s neon—calm, dangerous, and watching.
Apollo looked back once. The door had closed, but the fight, he knew, hadn’t ended. Not with Myers licking his wounds and Nike smiling in the darkness. Not with Dr. Ray missing. Not with Princess chasing stories and the world that might tear them apart for the truths she told.
He flexed his hand, felt the sting and the little sparks of flame against the bruises. He’d bought Yao time tonight. He’d won—barely. But every win here came with a cost.
“Get some sleep,” Yao said. “And stop being dramatic.”
Apollo cracked a half-smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try. But you know me.” He kicked at a puddle and watched the ripples spread, a small circle in the dark. “Tomorrow we train. And we find Dr. Ray.”
Yao blinked, startled into seriousness. “We find him.”
They walked into the night—the three of them—one flicker of light after another, each step a promise and a threat. The city swallowed their shapes, and somewhere inside the Ice Palace, Nike’s laugh drifted on the music like smoke.