Full Contact

The impact chamber opened only when the sirens began to scream. Two cybernetic prisoners charged through iron smoke, their ruined bodies wired into engines built for a war that had already consumed the city. Every strike shattered armor, bone, and memory, feeding fresh blood into the machinery beneath the arena. Above them, faceless surgeons watched from cages of rusted steel, waiting for one combatant to fall and the other to become something worse. There were no spectators left alive, no victory, and no escape—only the brutal instant when flesh met metal at full force. In the corpseworks, they called it Full Contact. The machine called it resurrection.