It’s a week later that Jolie comes back with news.

I’m boxing with my eyes closed. Retro music from fighting games of eras past blaring in the rafters overhead. Afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. Shoes squeaking. Feet sliding, arm flashing like thunder’s prelude as I weave through the six-hit string of a sophomore judo and counter with a single straight to the chest right as the beat drops. Every ounce of air ejects from his lungs. The whole gym groans along with.

I open my eyes as I kneel down, helping him up with a friendly grin and a clap on the shoulder. A line of more hopefuls waits their turn just outside the fighting square’s rope boundaries. My kingdom sprawls around them. Sweaty, walled by bricks, and beating with the full-auto pulse of martial artists landing their strikes. Some would say it’s a poor kingdom. That there are better stages to master. And they wouldn’t be wrong. I’ll take those stages one day. But I built this gym with my own two hands, and hell if I won’t keep pouring every drop of free time I have into keeping it running.

The sophomore judo makes to slip out of the ring, but I hold him in place, waving away his confusion when I hop the ropes instead. Tradition holds that in training, the victor stays in until they falter or step down of their own accord. I’ve set records of over a hundred matches in a row. Chalkboard counts of those days still hang in the lobby outside.

Usually, my presence on any square in the gym makes it the afternoon’s main event. Even if they only came for a quick workout, the moment I step up to fight, everyone wants to train against the top martial artist in the uni leagues. I never mind the practice, no matter how late someone catches me. But there are some lines a guy can’t cross. Sleep is one. Ice-cold killers like my sister are another. She’d never use a blade to reprimand me for ignoring her just to sneak in a few more matches, no no no. She’s more civilized than that. She’d use a keystroke. A whisper in the right ear. A wink and a nudge to any of the students wandering around. And I’d be eating crow or getting chased around for an entire week about practice sessions or dates I’d supposedly promised.

Thankfully, the others in line see Jolie coming and decide to look the other way, saving me from her wrath. Someone tosses my bag from the steps. I catch it and sling it over one shoulder before jumping from the stage, letting a fresh blast of aura dry the sweat dripping down my arms. The action picks up behind me.

I join Jolie in leaning against the fighting square, watching from stage level as the judo mounts a short-lived defense of his new throne. He came in expecting to lose. Expecting to be the challenger, not the challenged. It takes a different mentality to hold the summit, and that might be the most valuable lesson he learns today.

“An E-6 block against a muay knee? Seriously?” Jolie mutters, watching him go. Her nose wrinkles dangerously as I strip off my shirt and start using it as a towel. “You smell.”

“That’s hard work,” I grunt, stretching my arms overhead. “I was on the square for over an hour. You should try it sometime.”

My sister is the only person in the gym who’s completely immune to the sight of my stripped down state. My physicality is as important to me as my hands. Strength and endurance are the most valuable tools a martial artist can have, and mine are as near to perfect as a guy can get outside of JOY enhancements. My shoulders are broad. Arms wide. Skin tanned from running in the heat of summer. Muscles defined down to the micrometer by years of grueling training to turn my body into a weapon worthy of a pro. The draping, sweaty, crimson mane over it all is the only slack I’ve ever allowed myself. It’s a beautiful annoyance. But it’s my annoyance.

“I’ll fight on a square the day you learn to use a v-lookup function,” Jolie says, voice lowering as the next fighter steps up. Music and sandbag impacts cover our conversation. Her head dips. “The M didn’t want any news about Bishop to get out, and they’ve been keeping it under hard wraps. But it’s not going to stay that way for long.”

“Because?”

A hard slip of real paper thrusts into my hands, stopping my rebandaging. “Bishop is missing. Like, gone gone.”

“Seriously?”

She points to the paper slip. It’s printed in the smallest font possible, stuffed to the margins with prerelease scans of the M’s upcoming press handouts. “Management is going to promote that Venter tonight because he won by default, but there’s a lot of backroom dissent about it. No one has seen Bishop since the afternoon before the fight. This is the press release they sent out to the biggest sponsors yesterday to drum up interest in the new guy, but…”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I shake my head. “He’s going to be in and out in a day. There’s really no trail on Bishop?”

“They’re turning the whole capital upside down looking for him. Even the champion is getting involved. But I couldn’t find anything positive on the arena mainframe.” She clicks her tongue when I start to open my mouth. “And no, I didn’t get caught snooping around. I’m not that sloppy.”

“Just checking.”

I pause as I tug a fresh shirt on, replaying everything I remember of that fight from last week. Nothing springs to mind. Bishop didn’t appear at all. He might not have even been in the tower. But why? The lowest rank minor leaguer has the job of fielding every single tryout match. It’s a ruthless, thankless position to hold because of that. Forfeiting even a single tryout means automatic ejection, as the newcomer would hold a winning record over you. Bishop would have worked for decades just to reach that position. No one would give it up without a fight.

“Hm.”

Jolie’s eyes narrow. “That’s a dangerous sound to make, Mars.”

My gaze turns up when the two martial artists on deck, a brawler with a curved longsword and another punctuating right hooks with fireball blasts, dance across the fighting square a foot away from my head. Sweat flicks against my brow as the first whips through a ridiculously quick reverse roundhouse kick that flings her opponent into the ropes like a ragdoll.

I shake my hair out slowly, following the elusive tail of a new idea. “What if… it’s not about Bishop?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Bishop going missing isn’t about Bishop? What if it’s about the guy he was fighting?”

“That Venter?” Jolie shrugs, pulls out her JOY, and flicks through a few screens before her fingers stall. Her eyebrows arch over the rims of her glasses. “Shoot. He’s already been sponsored by Shimano Heavy. They snapped him up the second the press release went live.” An electric-blue projection of the company’s fishhook logo wavers to life above her JOY, subtitled by Shimano Heavy Industries. “And he passed up on a better deal from Id Co., too. They were looking for a Mecha to rep their new winter gear.”

“That’s a little…”

“…suspicious,” she finishes, eyes narrowing.

I nod. “Want to check it out?”

“What’s the point? Shouldn’t we be focusing on you and Ajax? This is something the police can handle. Winter tournament’s coming up next month, too.”

Putting my back to the stage, I cross my arms and lean against the ropes while the match’s pummeling finale shakes them from the other side. My shoulders lift in a small shrug. “You heard Champion Fang. I have to start training my head somehow. And this isn’t a dog eating my homework, it’s a pro fighter gone missing. The arena keeping that secret for an entire week is shady enough. There’s something more going on here. What if we’re the only ones putting two and two together?”

“I highly doubt that’s the case. Pro fighters don’t just go missing.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone else is trying to find Bishop.”

“True. True.” Her lips purse together for a moment as her head bounces from side to side. “You’re serious about wanting to check it out?”

To Jolie, my mild curiosity and slightly less mild boredom with my daily routine might not be the most noble reasons to go snooping around league business, so I hide my reservations behind a quick smile and a brotherly nudge. “Doesn’t have to be anything big. We can check out one lead and call it quits if there’s nothing more.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to poke around…” Jolie starts. Her bouncing finally solidifies into a solid nod. “I’m curious too. Let’s do it.”

Flashing me a rare smirk, Jolie motions for me to follow her out of the gym, parting the late-afternoon gymgoers without a single effort of her own. Everyone here knows better than to contest red hair in any form, whether it belongs to a meticulous ponytail or rages free in the wind.

Only the second-years would have the guts to swing into our path. One of my juniors in the martial arts club, a shock-haired kickboxer named Fletch, sticks a fist out for Jolie to bump.

“Looking good, Jojo. Nice suit.”

“Thanks, Fletch.” She nods to the boy behind him. “Shaw. See you around.”

There’s a blank, uncomprehending moment as she passes, shoes clicking against the concrete. Fletch slowly looks down and turns the fist over, fingers opening into an empty palm. Face crestfallen at the smoothness of the rejection. Then everyone who heard the exchange collapses into howls as I slap his hand on the way by.

“It was a good try,” I say, trying and failing to keep my humor in check.

For all the good looks we share, my sister has the romantic interest of a surly houseplant. You’d never know it by how many people try to ask her out, though.

My own laughter keeps shaking free while I clap shoulders and high hands all the way to the lobby. Every name, ever face, every fist I bump is important. So many of them want to know what my weekend plans are, if I’m running any extra training outside of club hours. I’m pretty sure I fill the entire rest of my week with promises of training before ducking under the gym’s too-short doors and escaping into chilly air and crowded streets. Reignited aura takes off the worst of the cold.

“Any home address?” I ask, swerving close to my sister’s side.

Jolie’s JOY is spun up and blinking before I finish, the gym already forgotten. “Already on it.”