The Lakers need a center, Dorian.

The silence between them was the eye of a hurricane.

Clancy shifted back into stance—feet light, bouncing slightly on the balls, hands raised with elbows tucked, like a trained Taekwondo fighter preparing for a high-speed chess match of kicks and feints.

Dorian, wide-legged, shoulders slouched forward like a predator sizing up a wounded bull, moved without form—all raw instinct, power, and momentum.

Then they clashed again.

Clancy shot forward first. He fired off a rapid triple kick combination—a low sweep to Dorian's shin, followed by a lightning-fast roundhouse to the ribs, and ended with a snapping hook kick aimed at the temple.

Dorian leaned just out of range of the last one, but not without cost—the roundhouse had landed clean against his ribcage. The grunt he let out was brief, but real.

He retaliated with the force of a falling tree—massive hooks, elbow swipes, even a stomp that cracked the mat beneath him. Clancy evaded most, parrying one swing, ducking the next, until a heavy forearm glanced his shoulder, knocking him off-balance.

He's not predictable, Clancy thought. He's dangerous because he doesn't care if he hits you clean. Just that he hits.

He adjusted again, sliding into a narrower stance. He used a springy Taekwondo step-in side kick—quick, snappy, and calculated to push Dorian back.

Dorian took it to the chest. He didn't even flinch.

Instead, he grabbed Clancy mid-air and hurled him like a sack of rice. Clancy twisted on the way down and landed with a shoulder roll, barely avoiding a follow-up knee.

"Fast," Dorian rumbled, voice low but admiring. "Precise."

Clancy wiped sweat from his brow, breathing heavier now. "Big. Unreasonable."

The two darted in again.

Clancy fired a turning back kick. Dorian sidestepped—unexpectedly nimble—and shoulder-checked him hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. The world flipped upside down for a second as Clancy hit the mat, then twisted his hips and latched onto Dorian's nearest arm.

BJJ now.

He pulled himself upward like a grappling hook, legs locking over Dorian's shoulder, and snapped into a triangle choke. One of the few options that could neutralize size.

Dorian thrashed.

But Clancy adjusted—tightening the angle, locking his shin behind his knee, pulling down on Dorian's head.

He could feel the choke sinking in.

Then Dorian stood up.

Clancy's core tightened, holding fast, but the size difference mattered now—Dorian lifted him off the floor and slammed him straight down, the impact enough to leave cracks in the vinyl padding.

Clancy let go—not because he wanted to, but because his grip had simply given out.

From the edge of the sparring hall, Mira flinched.

"He's gonna kill him," she muttered. Her voice was tight.

"No," Luca said, eyes narrowed. "Dorian knows his limits."

Mira glanced at him. "You sure Clancy does?"

Back on the mat, Clancy spat blood, then surged upward, sweeping Dorian's legs. The giant hit the ground but rolled with it. Clancy pounced, trying to isolate an arm, but Dorian bucked him off with a hip thrust and hammer-fisted the floor where Clancy's head had been a split second earlier.

The floor shook.

They both scrambled to their feet.

Dorian was breathing heavy now. His movements, while still animalistic, were slowing—his body taxed by the weight it carried. His left arm hung just slightly off-angle, bruised from the earlier armbar attempt.

Clancy took note. Left arm weakened. Target the shoulder. Drop him from the inside.

He dashed forward, low feint, then spinning crescent kick, aiming for the already-bruised arm. The strike cracked against muscle and bone—Dorian roared and staggered back. Clancy followed with a flurry of elbows, one-two-three-four—then ducked under a wild counter and transitioned to a rear body lock.

From there, he climbed like a spider up Dorian's back.

Rear naked choke—again. This time tighter.

Clancy's legs wrapped around his waist. His forearm pressed across Dorian's neck. It was in deep.

He held.

Held.

Held.

Dorian's face went red. His knees dipped.

He's gonna go out, Clancy thought.

But Dorian gritted his teeth. With a primal growl, he threw himself backward—slamming Clancy into the mat again, this time with everything he had left.

Clancy's grip shattered. He rolled, gasping, ribs aching, but still not out.

Garrick watched from the edge of the room, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Luca leaned toward Mira. "They're both pushing past the red."

"No one's stopping them," she replied.

"They're not done."

Clancy stood again, swaying. Dorian rose slower. Their eyes locked once more.

Neither smiled.

Clancy's vision was blurring. He couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood dripping down his jaw. His body felt foreign—uncooperative. Every step was a war.

But he still took one forward.

Dorian exhaled hard, shoulders heaving, eyes wild with pain—but not hate. He moved forward too.

Clancy launched into a final Taekwondo blitz—a perfect tornado kick, spinning clean, high, fast. It grazed Dorian's temple.

The big man stumbled—but before Clancy could follow up, Dorian lunged in desperation, catching Clancy's body with a crushing tackle. They rolled.

Somewhere in the chaos, Clancy twisted his hips and locked his legs around Dorian's neck again, but not cleanly—he was too slow. Dorian broke the triangle by sheer force.

The mat was stained now.

They lay on their backs, side by side, chest to chest.

Their eyes met.

Clancy pushed himself to his knees. Dorian did the same.

They both knew what was coming.

Clancy cocked his arm back for one last hook. Dorian raised his fist for one final hammer.

No defense.

No guard.

One hit left each.

They swung.

But neither strike landed.

Both bodies collapsed to the mat—unconscious, breathless, spent.

The final punches hovered in the air for a fraction of a second, then fell short as gravity claimed them.

Clancy and Dorian hit the ground at the same time.

Complete silence followed.

Even Garrick remained still for a beat, his expression unreadable.

Then Mira sprinted forward, Luca right behind her.

The medics were already moving.

As they rolled the two fighters onto their backs, Mira knelt beside Clancy, brushing his hair off his bloodied face. His lips were curled—just slightly—into a tired smile.

Luca crouched by Dorian, who looked peaceful for the first time all match. Like he had nothing more to prove.

Garrick finally stepped forward.

"Call it."

One of the medics looked up. "They're stable."

Garrick nodded. "Then the fight's over."

"No winner?" a recruit asked from the back.

Garrick glanced at the two unconscious forms on the mat and smirked faintly.

"There are no winners when you reach your limit. Only survivors."

"Ah, careful please." 

Clancy grimaced. The nurse was putting the viscous like gel on him as usual, but this nurse in particular was quite aggressive. 

"Any chance you could go a little lighter on the placement? I was just thrown around by someone that should've been an NBA player."

The nurse looked up at Clancy, and he could feel her eyes boring a window into his soul. For some reason everyone here was very attractive, even the nurses and personnel. There were hardly any people that were conventionally unattractive, even old people like Director Selwyn and Zephyr. 

"What is this stuff anyways?"

"Kairon."

"What?! You're putting monster gunk on me?"

"It's been processed, and kairon blood has incredible healing properties."

It was true, and Clancy couldn't find a way to deny it. He had had a few broken bones since coming to the OTA and even those could be healed in a matter of hours by the mystery gunk that he had now come to know as Kairon blood. 

"How you feeling?"

Luca handed an electrolyte drink to Clancy, who had an icepack on his shoulder. Bruises and light internal bleeding didn't really warrant usage of the kairon blood packs, and so Clancy had to stick to old fashioned ice packs in order to alleviate the pain.

"Fine, but man Dorian is a machine. I've never fought to a standstill with anyone."

"Yeah, he's nuts." 

While they were still discussing the events that happened a few hours prior, Dorian walked over and nodded at Luca before sitting down on Clancy's bed. 

"Hello, Clancy."

"Hey, Dorian."

"I quite enjoyed our fight."

This was quite a surprise to Clancy. When they were fighting it genuinely felt like Dorian was going to kill him on several occasions, and Clancy felt fear for his life. But now that the dust had settled and they were back in their dorms, he was no more menacing than a golden retriever. 

He nursed a bandaged hand and had taped ice packs all over his body, including several on his back, covering the large tattoo and scars that seemed to litter him.

"Hey, Dorian. Can I ask you a question? What's your deal? Not that I don't appreciate a good fight, but…I mean…how are you so insane at it? You fight without regard to defense and just look as if you're trying to kill me."

Dorian remained silent for a moment and then spoke.

"When I fight, I am not me. I become someone else. I don't know how to stop it, until either I am defeated, tired, or my opponent is dead."

He looked down at his massive hands. 

"My story is…not one of happiness."