Gorrak Graulkar

The world was a blur of neon and blood, static buzzing in Gorrak’s cybernetic ear like a warning alarm that had long since given up.

He lay flat on his back, half-buried in the dirt and oil-slick pavement of an abandoned industrial yard—one of the countless rusted-out factory zones in The Veil. The air around him pulsed with the glow of flickering neon ads, some half-broken, others scanning for fresh eyes to sell to. Somewhere in the distance, a drone buzzed by, scanning faces and feeding them into the Conglomerate’s surveillance grid.

Above him, the fractured skyline of Grimhaven’s middle layer stretched into infinity, a forest of steel and crumbling industry stacked so high it blocked out the sky. Hundreds of levels of city, each pressing down on the ones below like a machine built to crush the weak and feed the strong. The only light came from blazing furnace towers, flickering holo-signs, and the orange glow of smog-choked floodlights. A busted powerline sparked somewhere nearby, a constant crackling reminder that everything in The Veil was built to last—until it wasn’t.

Gorrak groaned, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in air like a man who had just seen the face of the gods. He wasn’t sure which part of him hurt worse—his jaw, his ribs, or his brakking pride. Probably all of it. Definitely all of it.

His cybernetic HUD was still glitching from the hit, feeding him fragmented readouts in flashing red warnings.

IMPACT DAMAGE DETECTED MOTOR FUNCTION DELAYED NEURAL FEED INTERRUPTED—RECALIBRATING

Around him, the Iron Fangs were losing their damn minds.

A circle of grimy, cyber-augmented warriors crowded the perimeter of the fight zone, their roaring laughter and hollering voices echoing off steel walls. Some were banging metal-knuckled fists against old cargo crates, others were already placing new bets, money and cyber-credits flashing through dirty hands.

Someone flicked a lit neon cigarette over the railing above, the tiny blue ember spiraling down to land near Gorrak’s boot. The smell of burnt ozone, sweat, and industrial coolant filled the air.

He wiped a trickle of something red from the corner of his mouth. Blood? Oil? Who brakking knew. His cybernetic jaw clicked slightly out of alignment as he grinned.

"Hah… that was a good hit."

He turned his head and immediately regretted it. His reinforced spine had absorbed most of the impact, sure, but that didn’t stop his entire body from feeling like someone had run a demolition bot straight through him.

I should get up. I should—

Nope.

Not happening.

His limbs felt like they’d been filled with concrete, and his vision still had that nice little double-layered effect that meant his brain hadn’t fully caught up with the idea of being conscious yet.

The crowd was still ravenous, shouting over each other, jeering, cheering—some taking pictures to prove to the Red Wires that the big dumb warlord had finally been floored. Somewhere in the back, someone was already calling a fixer in The Gutter to spread the news.

Gorrak flexed his fingers, feeling the servos in his cybernetic hand whirr to life. Okay. He was still alive.

That was good.

Great, even.

Except.

His amber eyes flicked toward them—the one standing over him, the one who had just beaten him in a fight.

A thin haze of industrial smoke curled between them, backlit by the cold glow of overhead neon strips. Their outline flickered in his HUD like a fresh combatant in the system—a warning, a challenge, a name that hadn’t yet been marked as friend or foe.

Gorrak blinked. Then blinked again.

Then he grinned. Wide. Too wide. The kind of wild, battle-drunk smile that made normal people deeply uncomfortable.

His laugh started low in his chest, a rough, gravel-edged thing that built into a full-bodied cackle.

"Ohoh. Oooooohoh, brak me sideways. You actually did it." He lifted a hand, pointing at them like he was seeing a divine vision instead of the person who had just wrecked his shit. "I gotta be honest, I did not see that coming."

He dropped his hand, groaning as he forced himself upright with a wince and a spine-cracking stretch. His skull still felt like it had been used as a war drum, but none of that mattered.

What mattered was them.

He looked them over again, memorizing every detail—every scuff, every scratch, every sign of the fight they had just finished.

A slow grin crawled back onto his face.

"You. Are. Beautiful."

The Iron Fangs howled at that, some of them laughing, others just slamming their boots against the ground. Someone in the back yelled, "Aw, brak, here we go."

Gorrak pushed himself fully to his feet, towering despite the fact that he was the one who had just lost. His body screamed at him to sit the hell back down, but he ignored it. He had more important things to do.

Like staring at them like they had just personally saved his brakking life.

His jaw clicked back into place as he folded his arms. "Alright. I gotta ask. How the hell did you do that? Was it the footwork? The timing? Some kinda fancy-ass strategy? Luck?" He squinted, tilting his head. "Or—brak me—are you actually just that good?"

The way he said it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t mocking—just pure, unfiltered awe.

Then his grin widened into something dangerous, eager.

"You know what this means, yeah?"

One of the Iron Fangs in the front row groaned, rubbing his face. "Gorrak. Don’t do this."

Gorrak absolutely did not listen.

"It means you gotta fight me again." His eyes gleamed like a predator catching scent of something rare. "I need to see that again. I need to feel that again."

The crowd roared, some jeering, some cheering, all of them knowing exactly where this was going.

Gorrak cracked his knuckles, cybernetic servos humming with the motion. "Or—or, brak, listen—maybe we mix it up. Weapons this time. OR! No weapons at all. Just bare knuckles, no augments, straight skill."

Someone in the back yelled, "Gorrak, you dumb bastard, let them breathe first!"

Gorrak waved a hand dismissively. "Right, right. After drinks, obviously. First drinks, then a fight."

Then he paused.

Then he frowned.

Then he brightened, like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

"Or—we drink during the fight."

The audience lost its mind.

Gorrak just stood there, grinning like a brakking idiot, completely, utterly obsessed.