Something heavy smashed into Mateo's temple from the side, knocking him to the floor.
The world tilted sideways. Warm liquid trickled down the side of his head as heavy footsteps thundered toward him. He rolled away just as Brett's boot stomped where his skull had been a moment before.
Move. Get up. Fight.
He swept his leg back and kicked forward, launching himself upright just as something glinted in his peripheral vision. Mateo pivoted, feeling metal graze his ribs and tear through his shirt.
What the hell? Brett hadn't thrown anything—at least not with his hands.
Mateo backed away, scanning the narrow alley. Crumbling brick walls, broken AC units hanging like dead insects, plastic pipes snaking along the facades. Nothing that should be flying around on its own.
"Not so tough now, are you, hero?" Brett's voice carried a gleeful malice that made Mateo's skin crawl.
The AC unit closest to Brett looked wrong. The metal casing was torn open, jagged edges pointing outward like teeth. But the damage looked... intentional. Like something had ripped it apart from the inside.
Brett flicked his fingers, subtle but deliberate. Another piece of the unit tore free with a metallic screech.
Oh, shit.
No time to think. The metal shard shot toward him like a bullet. Mateo sidestepped, hearing it embed into the brick wall behind him with a sharp crack.
Brett hadn't touched it. The realization hit as another chunk of metal wrenched free, bending and twisting in the air like it was alive.
"Finally figured it out, huh?" Brett's laugh was ugly, triumphant. "They don't call me the Iron Knight for nothing."
More shrapnel flew at Mateo—pieces of pipe, chunks of the AC unit, anything metal Brett could get his hands on. Mateo ducked one piece, spun away from another. Each dodge brought him closer to Brett, but also closer to bleeding out from a dozen cuts.
A jagged piece grazed his forearm, opening a thin line of red. The sting was immediate, sharp.
Focus. Watch his hands.
Brett gestured before each attack, his focus locked on whatever metal he was controlling. When he yanked another piece from the AC unit, Mateo saw his opening.
He sprinted forward. Brett panicked, hurling a solid chunk of metal directly at Mateo's chest. Mateo launched himself sideways and up, the projectile whistling beneath him as he closed the distance.
Now.
As his feet hit the ground, Mateo planted his right foot and pivoted, putting everything he had into a kick aimed at Brett's jaw. All those hours on the heavy bag, all that rage and grief and desperate hope—
Brett's arm came up. White metal flowed like liquid around his wrist, forming a crude shield that caught the kick with a bone-jarring clang.
Brett's feet skidded back several inches despite his size. His grin was strained now, teeth clenched, veins bulging in his neck. "That all you got?"
"The fuck you doing?" Razor called from the mouth of the alley, sounding bored. "Think you can't handle some quirkless nobody?"
"Shut up!" Brett's voice cracked with fury. "I don't need help with this piece of—"
Red light washed over them.
A drone. Black, tortoise-sized, hovering above the alley like a mechanical vulture. They were supposed to monitor for crime, alert the authorities. But Mateo had heard rumors—some had been hijacked, turned into private spy networks.
Brett's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Perfect."
He raised his left hand while keeping his shield up with his right. With a casual downward flick, he brought the drone crashing down.
Mateo leaped backward as the machine smashed into the concrete with enough force to crack it. Sparks flew, metal fragments scattered like deadly confetti.
The pieces rose from the ground, drawn to Brett's hands like iron filings to a magnet. They flowed together, reshaping themselves into crude gauntlets that covered his fists.
"Now it gets interesting," Brett snarled.
They crashed together.
Fists flew faster than Mateo could track. Every punch he threw met solid metal. This wasn't the heavy bag—this was real, with consequences. His knuckles, already calloused from daily practice, began to split and bleed against the unyielding surface.
Keep moving. Find an opening.
Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs burned. But he couldn't stop.
Brett manipulated the metal around his hands, making the gauntlets glow cherry-red. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as Mateo's knuckles sizzled against the heated metal.
Alec's face flashed in his mind—laughing, alive, before the explosion turned everything to ash and screaming.
"Getting tired yet?" Brett taunted, launching a superheated punch that Mateo barely dodged.
Mateo shifted tactics, aiming kicks at Brett's legs. Metal shin guards materialized instantly, deflecting each strike. Between exchanges, Brett would send metal fragments flying at exposed areas. When Mateo dodged, Brett capitalized, landing brutal hits that left his ribs and face swollen.
"Yo, Brett!" Razor called out, leaning against the alley wall with theatrical exaggeration. "You gonna dance with this kid all morning, or can we grab that drink?"
Bones shifted nervously beside him. "Maybe we should—I mean, what if someone calls the cops?"
"Five more minutes," Brett snarled, not taking his eyes off Mateo.
But those five minutes felt like hours. Mateo's vision began to blur. His body was a map of pain—cuts from metal shards, burns from the heated gauntlets, bruises from direct hits. Still, he pushed forward.
This is what heroes do. They don't quit.
For Brett, this fight had become something more than entertainment. Word traveled fast in The Cemetery. If people heard that some quirkless kid had lasted more than thirty seconds against the Iron Knight, his reputation would crumble. Respect was the only currency that mattered here.
His attacks grew wilder, more desperate. The metal around his hands shifted constantly—spikes, blades, anything that might give him an edge.
Mateo found a rhythm in the chaos, anticipating moves seconds before they came. But no amount of skill could overcome simple physics. He was human, fighting against metal. His body was failing even as his spirit refused to break.
Just a little longer. Just—
Mateo threw another punch at Brett's gauntlet. This time, dozens of small spikes had sprouted from the metal surface.
His fist drove straight into them.
The spikes tore through his already blistered skin, piercing deep, breaking small bones, shredding muscle and tendon. Pain exploded behind his eyes—white-hot, all-consuming, like molten metal poured directly into his brain.
His legs gave out. He collapsed backward, his body finally surrendering what his will refused to accept.
Brett stood over him, breathing hard but triumphant. His eyes had a faraway look, the kind that came when power and rage overwhelmed reason.
All the scattered metal in the alley began to move, drawn by some invisible force. Fragments flowed together like mercury, bending and reshaping until they formed something that resembled a serrated axe.
"Whoa, whoa," Bones stepped forward, nervous laughter in his voice. "I thought we were just gonna rough him up, man. You actually gonna—?"
"Brett," Razor's voice had lost its casual tone. "You kill him here, and we're all getting shipped to the front lines. You know that, right?"
Brett didn't answer. The crazed smile stretched wider as he raised the axe high, ready to end it.
Mateo's vision tunneled to just the gleaming edge of the weapon. In that moment, he thought of Alec—not the broken body he'd pulled from the rubble, but his brother as he'd been. Laughing. Hopeful. Believing the world could be better.
I'm sorry, he thought. I tried.
The axe began its descent.