The beer cans clinked softly as Wang set his down on the floor, the fuzz of its last few sips still lingering on his tongue. The early afternoon heat was turning the apartment into a fucking oven. He wiped sweat from his brow and shifted on the couch, his new robotic arm whirring faintly as he moved.
Cass sat across from him in the recliner, legs up, shirt clinging to her ribs. She looked like a worn-out gunslinger from an old Western—except with sharper eyes and a sharper attitude.
Wang exhaled slowly. "So this fake ID route… You said twenty-five grand, yeah?"
Cass nodded lazily. "Mm-hmm."
"Is that the only way into Melbourne?"
She cocked an eyebrow. "Why? You got a trust fund buried in the sand somewhere I don't know about?"
Wang ignored the jab. "No, I mean… are there other ways to get in?"
Cass clicked her tongue and leaned back. "Other ways?"
"Yeah," he said. "Like... not money. Maybe some kind of deal, or exchange, or... fuck, I dunno. Something that doesn't involve coughing up twenty-five grand I don't have."
Cass's eyes narrowed slightly. She stared at him a second too long. Then she reached over to the cluttered table, grabbed a cigarette, and lit it with a shaky old lighter. The flame danced in the dim light.
"There is another way," she muttered finally, dragging hard.
Wang's posture straightened. "Yeah?"
Cass blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Yeah. You go crawling to the fuckin' guards."
Wang frowned. "What do you mean?"
She turned her head and locked eyes with him. "You snitch, Wang. You become their little informant. Feed them dirt, rat out fellow prisoners, lead them to stash houses, help them take out rivals. In exchange, they 'reward' you."
He blinked. "Reward?"
Cass gave a dry, sarcastic grin. "They got a program. Real hush-hush shit. Melbourne Citizenship Reintegration Scheme. They take the best snitches—the ones that deliver real bodies, real value—and hand them a shiny new ID chip. Forged papers. Full access. You get to live in the 'real' world. Clean."
Wang was quiet. He stared at the peeling paint on the wall, then back to her. "That's real?"
"As real as my fucking gun," she said, tapping the ash into a rusted tin.
"How do you even know this?"
"I was offered it. Years ago."
Wang's eyebrows rose. "And?"
"I told them to suck my dick and shove their chip where the sun don't shine."
He paused. "Why?"
Cass took another drag, slower this time. "Because once you snitch, you're never free. Not really. They own you. You get the ID chip, yeah, but they'll always keep a leash on your neck. Call you back in whenever they want. One wrong move, one missed report, and they burn your new identity in front of you and toss your ass back behind the electric fence. Or worse—they feed you to the prisoners you ratted on."
Wang frowned deeply. "So it's a trap."
"It's always a trap," Cass growled. "They dangle the chip like a golden ticket. But all it buys you is paranoia and a slow fuckin' death."
Wang looked away, his jaw tight.
Cass's voice softened just slightly. "Look, I ain't judging if you did wanna go that way. I've seen people make that call. Smart people. Desperate people. But just know, once you cross that line, there ain't no coming back."
Wang flexed his cybernetic fingers absently. The whirring was the only sound for a moment.
"I'm not a fucking rat," he said quietly.
Cass gave him a long, unreadable look. Then she nodded once.
"Good," she said. "Keep it that way."
***
The midday sun baked the streets of old Adelaide like an open oven, heatwaves dancing above cracked pavement and rusted street signs. The deeper they went, the worse the neighborhood looked—graffiti tags over gang tags, windows boarded with rotting plywood, and stray dogs that looked like they ate meth for breakfast.
Cass parked the motorbike in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The building had no signage—just a bent, rusted shutter half-pulled over the entrance. Spray paint across the metal door read:"Bleed to Live. Die to Earn."
Wang tilted his head. "Friendly spot."
Cass smirked, tossing him a gym towel. "Don't judge a fight club by its tetanus risk. C'mon."
Inside, the heat turned damp, like the inside of someone's armpit. The air reeked of sweat, cheap muscle rub, and blood—old, caked blood that had been scrubbed half-assedly off the floors. The lights buzzed overhead, some flickering like they were debating whether to die. A few ceiling fans spun lazily, pushing around stale air that didn't help much.
The place had two makeshift boxing rings, one of which had actual duct tape holding its ropes together. Piles of sandbags sat in the corners, and the wall mirrors were so cracked you could barely make out your reflection without looking like a Picasso painting.
Wang's eyes wandered to a metal cage at the far end—octagonal, dented, stained. A couple of guys were sparring inside with bare fists and taped ankles. One had a busted nose gushing red down his chest, but neither had any intention of stopping. No ref. No rules.
"Welcome to Hell's Locker Room," Cass said, hands on her hips. "Where future corpses come to sweat."
"Cozy," Wang muttered, his eyes still fixed on the bloodied cage.
Just then, a man approached. He was in his late 40s but looked like he'd been carved out of meat and regrets. Stocky and broad with cauliflower ears, a broken nose that'd healed wrong, and forearms like goddamn tree trunks. His faded tank top read "FUCK YEAH" in block letters, and a coiled snake tattoo wrapped around his thick neck like it was choking him out.
He sized Wang up without a word.
"Wang, meet Rocky," Cass said. "Used to fight in the Thai circuits till someone snapped his leg like a twig. Now he trains psychos, thugs, and bounty fodder."
Rocky didn't smile. He stepped forward and thrust out a massive hand.
Wang reached for it.
CRUNCH.
"Fuckin'—!" Wang hissed as Rocky squeezed his hand in a vice grip, just shy of cracking a bone. When he pulled back, there was a faint red mark forming across the top of his knuckles.
"Grip's weak," Rocky grunted. His voice was like gravel in a blender. "Gonna fix that."
Cass snorted. "See? Told you he'd love you."
Rocky didn't even look at her.
"Fifty push-ups," he barked.
Wang blinked. "What, now?"
Rocky stepped aside, motioning to a grimy rubber mat that had probably seen more sweat than a whorehouse sauna.
"Now."
Cass slapped Wang's back. "Play nice, boys. I'm off to talk to Fred about ammo. Don't die, Wang."
"Thanks for the fucking vote of confidence."
She turned on her heel and disappeared through the back exit, the metal door clanging shut behind her.
Wang looked at Rocky, who was already pulling out a beat-up clipboard with a pen duct-taped to it.
"Alright, Cinderella," Rocky grunted. "We're gonna test where you're at before we throw you into the blender."
Wang sighed and dropped down onto the mat. "So, we doing push-ups or military-grade hazing?"
"Same thing," Rocky said flatly. "Push till your arms give out. Then we'll start the real shit."
Wang glanced around the room—sweaty men beating the crap out of each other, the distant clang of weights, the smell of iron in the air.
He muttered under his breath, "What the fuck did I sign up for…"
And with that, he began to push.
Q: Have you ever watched Rocky before?