The streetlight at the corner couldn’t decide if it wanted to live or die. It buzzed, flickered, and finally steadied just long enough to splash a weak glow across the alley Yoshii was dragging Apollo into.
The alley smelled like wet trash, piss, and the kind of rot LA pretends it doesn’t have, but Apollo walked with the same casual swagger he brought everywhere. Flame-colored shades dangled loosely from his fingers, spinning with each step.
“Thanks for covering for me, man.” Yoshii’s voice cracked in the middle — desperation leaking through the fake chill. His arm was strapped up in a sling, and the blue Eskimo hat he always wore was pulled low like he was hiding inside it. “I owe you big.”
Apollo grinned. “Who else you gonna call that’s as good as me?”
Yoshii’s eyes flickered icy blue for just a heartbeat. Not dramatic. Not flashy. More like a warning light only Apollo would notice.
“It’s the hat, isn’t it?” Apollo said. “Still ugly.”
“It’s my mom’s, idiot,” Yoshii mumbled, nudging him with his good shoulder. He walked fast, nerves jittering underneath every step. “And you retired, remember? You don’t even do this anymore.”
“Please.” Apollo tossed his shades and caught them behind his back. “When nobody can beat you, retirement’s the only option left.”
“Yeah, well, the rest of us aren’t bulletproof,” Yoshii snapped. “Nike said if I don’t show up, it won’t just be me paying for it.”
That made Apollo slow down.
“You sure you want me stepping in?” he asked quietly.
“You’re the only person I can trust.” Yoshii’s voice wavered again. “And Bo already knows you’re my sub.”
They reached the alley’s end where the last flickering streetlight died completely. A steel door waited in the darkness, guarded by a bouncer shaped like a refrigerator with attitude problems. Beer sweat and fryer grease clung to him like cologne.
Bo crossed his gigantic arms. “What do you want?”
Yoshii held up his good hand. “Relax, big guy. He’s with me.”
Bo eyed Apollo like he was a toothpick pretending to be a sword. “He doesn’t look like much. Best forfeit now.”
Apollo smirked. “Pretty sure that’s what your mom said when she met you.”
Bo’s jaw clenched. Yoshii threw him an apologetic look and shoved Apollo inside before the man decided to turn them into stains.
The heavy door slammed shut. Noise swallowed them instantly — bass pounding so hard the air vibrated, people shouting, glasses clinking, feet stomping. The Ice Palace didn’t look real. It looked like a nightclub and hockey rink had a messy, glittering child.
A glass floor shimmered under choreographed lights. Waitresses in skimpy Eskimo-inspired outfits glided through the crowd, skirts made of faux fur and white feathers. Waiters wore icy-blue jackets sharp enough to cut someone. Perfume clung to the air, fighting the alley stench at the door.
Apollo leaned close to yell over the music. “Miho works for Nike now?”
“Not works.” Yoshii shook his head. “Miho lost a fight. Her family had to hand the club over. Like street racers losing their car.”
Apollo dodged a drunk couple swaying too hard. “Harsh. But Miho’s a cold bitch. She probably had it coming.”
They passed a skinny kid their age rocking a blue crop top, daisy dukes, mismatched stockings, and pumps so tall they belonged in a museum. Apollo’s mom used to talk about “fast girls,” but this dude put them all to shame. His friend wore the same outfit, but on her it looked runway-ready.
Yoshii kept talking, trying to be heard over Glorilla blasting through the speakers. “Nike’s been cleaning house since you dipped. You either fight for her, or—”
“Die,” Apollo said, unbothered. “Right. Happens.”
“What do you mean by ‘right’?” Yoshii hissed.
But Apollo wasn’t listening anymore. His entire body stiffened, heat rolling off him in waves.
Because standing in the center of the pit was a guy who had no right being there.
Tall. Built. Black. Muscles like they were printed out of a magazine. Thin wire glasses perched on his nose. Wearing a volleyball uniform that definitely lied about its size.
Yoshii followed Apollo’s stare. “Who the hell is that?”
“That,” Apollo growled, “is the jerk who stole Tishan from me.”
Yoshii groaned. “Bruh, I don’t care if that’s the Pope and he backhanded your mom and punted your dad across the street. You gotta get down there before I’m disqualified.”
Apollo didn’t move.
“Myers,” he muttered. “Of course he’s here.”
“Then you can beat his ass. Great motivation.”
They pushed through the crowd, chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The clock above the ring showed:60 frozen on loop — the Ice Palace’s way of saying the match begins whenever Nike says it does.
Myers smirked when he noticed him. “Shades? That you?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Apollo said, sliding his iconic flame-trimmed red shades onto his face. Heat shimmered around him like pavement in summer.
“Almost didn’t recognize you without them.” Myers cracked his knuckles. “How’s Tishan? Oh, wait — you don’t know. She’s my girl now.”
Apollo’s jaw twitched.
Up on the VIP couch, Nike exhaled a slow stream of cigar smoke. Her black suit and yellow tie gleamed under the spotlights. Beside her sat Iceberg, the nervous ex-owner of the club, and next to him, Miho, wearing an icy-blue figure-skater outfit that edged into dangerous territory. Her bob haircut swung like a blade every time she turned her head.
Without standing, Nike flicked her wrist. Iceberg immediately jumped up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, voice cracking from nerves, “welcome to the Ice Palace! Tonight’s match: Myers versus… uh…” He glanced awkwardly at Apollo.
“Apollo,” he muttered.
“Apollo! No territory on the line — just a classic android-on-android showdown!”
Two attendants in fluffy white hoods sprinted to the center, scanners in hand. One scanned Myers. Beep. The other scanned Apollo. Beep.
“Organism confirmed: android!”
The dance floor clanked and lifted five feet, transforming into a boxing ring without ropes, lights shifting from party mode to icy blue and Carolina blue.
Myers rolled his shoulders, eyes turning jet-black as a glowing blue power symbol appeared on his forehead. “You’re fire, right? And I’m water.” He stepped forward with a bored yawn. “Do yourself a favor and leave.”
Iceberg shouted, “Talismans are allowed!”
Apollo stepped into the spotlight. Tilted his shades down just enough for Myers to see his eyes glowing red-orange, blazing hotter with each second.
“You know what they say about playing with fire?” he said quietly.
Myers smirked. “Let me guess — I’ll get burned? Bro, please. That line is ancient.”
Apollo smiled back, slow and confident.
“Nah,” he said, pushing his shades up. “I’m saving it for when I beat your ass.”