**Volume 2: Upper World**

  **Chapter 56: White Space**

  January 3rd, 3:41 p.m. – Central Arena (Match 1 – Continued)

  Inside Ram’s realm — **My Rules Now** — everything was red-black and wrong. Gravity flipped sideways. Walls bled into floors. Air felt thick like syrup. Every step echoed a hundred times, bouncing back distorted.

  Jone stood in the center — shirtless, scars glowing faint under the warped light, knife gripped so tight his knuckles were white. Ram circled slow — grin gone, eyes narrowed, red aura pulsing with jackpot energy.

  Ram spoke first — voice low, carrying through the fractured space.

  “Any movement means death.”

  Jone didn’t answer.

  He just ran.

  Fast — boots scraping impossible angles — knife flashing up. Ram moved to block — but Jone was already inside his guard. The blade sank in — clean, deep — right under Ram’s ribs. A wet, sucking sound. Blood sprayed hot across Jone’s arm.

  Ram’s eyes widened — shock, then pain.

  The realm broke.

  Reality snapped back like a rubber band — stone floor solid again, crowd roar crashing in, floodlights blinding.

  Jone stood over Ram — knife still buried to the hilt.

  Ram looked up — blood pouring from his mouth — tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle came out.

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  Then he fell.

  The back of his head hit stone — crack — blood pooling fast, dark and thick, spreading under his body like spilled oil. His eyes stayed open — staring at nothing.

  The crowd went quiet for half a heartbeat — stunned — then exploded.

  Jone didn’t move.

  He just stared down at the body — breathing hard, knife dripping.

  Men in black uniforms rushed in — no emotion, just efficiency. They lifted Ram’s body by the arms and legs — head lolling, blood trailing in a long smear — and carried him out through a side gate. Another team came behind with mops and rags — wiped the stone clean in under thirty seconds. Like it never happened.

  Jone looked at the blood on his hands.

  Then at the spot where Ram had been.

  Then he laughed — short, broken, more sob than sound.

  He dropped to his knees — knife clattering away — and stared at his palms like they belonged to someone else.

  The world blurred.

  White.

  Everything went white.

  Jone was on his knees in a blank space — no walls, no floor, no sky. Just endless nothing. And there — standing in front of him — his dad.

  Not the dead version from the massacre. Not the broken body he’d buried. Just… his dad. Tall, broad, same dark hair, same tired eyes, same gentle smile he used to give when Jone was small and scraped his knee.

  His dad was on the ground — not hurt, just sitting cross-legged like they used to during story time. Blood all over him — soaked through his shirt, streaked across his face — but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Jone,” he said — voice soft, warm, like it always was. “You’re a great kid.”

  Jone’s throat closed.

  His dad reached out — slow — put a bloody hand on Jone’s cheek.

  “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do. You’re my little boy. My son.”

  Jone broke.

  Tears came fast — hot, choking — and he dropped forward, forehead hitting his dad’s shoulder. He cried like he was five again — loud, ugly, shoulders shaking — clinging to the shirt like if he let go his dad would disappear again.

  His dad just held him — one hand on the back of Jone’s head, stroking slow.

  “You’re getting stronger,” he whispered.

  Jone shook his head against the bloody fabric.

  “I’m not stronger. I’m not strong enough.”

  His dad didn’t argue.

  Just kept holding him.

  The white space held them for a long minute — father and son — until the light started to fade.

  Jone opened his eyes.

  Back in the arena.

  Ram’s body was gone. The blood wiped clean. Crowd still roaring — distant, like underwater.

  Jone stood slow — legs shaking — picked up his knife.

  He looked at the empty spot where Ram had fallen.

  Then walked out.

  No wave. No look at the crowd.

  Just gone.

  ---

  Arena 5 – Moments later

  Hiro and Rita stood at their separate gates — waiting.

  Hiro gripped the hilt of her new gun-sword — blade short, pistol grip under the guard — and a plain knife tucked in her belt. She’d laid them out on her bunk earlier — sword down, gun beside it — stared at them for a long time, then went to sleep holding the knife like a teddy bear.

  Rita stood opposite — dominion mark glowing faint on her palm — eyes calm but scared.

  The announcer’s voice crackled.

  “Match 4. Hiro vs Rita. Begin.”

  They stepped into the pit together.

  Looked at each other.

  Neither moved first.

  The chapter ended.

  To be continued…