Chapter 77

As the Fight Club duty assignments were wrapping up, an unexpected event cropped up.

"A duel?"

Kids' avatar, dressed in a black referee uniform, snapped a salute. The whistle around her neck swung with her crisp movement. According to the report she'd submitted, friction between some factions had escalated to the brink of a massive brawl. But right before it kicked off, they glanced at the CCTV cameras watching them and backed down.

In the prison, anyone involved in a fight gets thrown into solitary for a week. And everyone knows the Shelter is way scarier than your average prison. They don't hesitate to shoot non-lethal rounds at inmates or bash them with rifle butts—a rarity even in third-world lockups. Plus, all the faction enforcers—the heavy hitters—had already peeled off. You don't get to that position without serious skills. Most of them aced the aptitude tests and were now in coasting mode, dodging resident squabbles like falling leaves. No one wanted to get tangled up and rack up penalty points.

Still, with the root conflicts unresolved, skirmishes kept popping up, wearing everyone down. In the end, they called on resident manager Kids for mediation, and she eagerly accepted before rushing straight to me.

"So this is your mediation plan?"

I let out a dry chuckle, eyeing Kids.

Kids struck a lesser panda pose, growling "Rawr! Rawr!" That adorable hologram act had me absently petting her head anyway.

Kids squealed happily. The report included stills of the two gangs frozen just before the fight—glaring daggers at each other, pure venom in their eyes. I'd seen looks like that back in my army days.

'A sergeant who doesn't salute officers first, mouthing off politely.'

Like when a NCO and an officer squared off in a pissing contest.

'That was fixing your hat, not a salute.'

'Don't talk down to me.'

'I'm not.'

A captain pretending to mutter half-insults at a lieutenant, and a salty sergeant refusing to back down. Epic mind games that made your chest swell. Rare in domestic units, but overseas deployments enforced half-fossilized protocols rigidly, sparking these clashes left and right. That pathetic standoff dragged on for a full year until the captain got promoted to major (actual) and it fizzled overnight. The poison in their stares during that year? Exactly like what I saw in those women's eyes.

"Yeah, mediation alone won't cut it."

Kids nodded sagely, eyes closed, arms crossed.

Prisoner disputes are as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠common as breathing. Guards often let them slide as a necessary evil. Even the toughest pressure cooker blows if the steam builds too much—you gotta vent it at the right time. One vent is inmate brawls. Fighters blow off steam; watchers get a show. That's why movies show inmates cheering fights—not random. Like the Colosseum reborn in a savage world.

Oh, and there's another vent: black market dealers. Connected inmates smuggle via suppliers. Booze, smokes, gambling cards/dice, mags—common stuff just gets confiscated with penalties. Phones for family or weapons? Straight to solitary, maybe extra sentence. Sloppy joints get drugs; rotten ones like South America even import hookers or masseuses. Guards know but look the other way for "flexible control." Fights and smuggled goods are the lifeline in hellish prison life.

But this is the Shelter. Perfect surveillance, outside world wiped out, no supplies. Leisure/culture support coming soon, but not yet. Tensions will spike meanwhile.

"The parties okay with this?"

One was Nina, the other a new face: Chinese woman. Nina's got that tight, sleek fitness model build; the Chinese chick with the ponytail looked like a weightlifter. They'd clashed before—not just in the Offshore Prison, but here too. Kids played some clips.

First: Chinese woman kicks Nina's back on stairs. Risky ambush, but Nina rolls twice perfectly and pops up, face roaring like a lioness. Without bystanders, it'd have been deathmatch.

Second: Revenge at chow time. Chinese woman gripes in Chinese (subs: food sucks, miss home cooking) while poking her teeth.

"Ungrateful—they're fed and housed, and they bitch?"

Then thud-thud-thud! Nina flies in from the right—Hecto-Pascal Kick, the old Korean meme reborn. Full-weight flying kick sends the big girl tumbling limp. Her crew stares dumbfounded; Nina strolls off, hands clasped behind her head, cool as hell.

"She doesn't take hits lying down."

That badass swagger was absurdly charming. More clips showed their feud, but post-aptitude tests, they just traded insults—no more violence.

I flipped through the duelists' profiles, edited by Kids into a boxing match poster. Crop tops showing navels and pits, tiny shorts, fists up in stance. Nina screamed sexy fighter photoshoot: ripped vertical abs, ropey limbs, pale skin, full chest, sharp nose, doll face—wild beauty vs. Chloro or Rose's perfect.

Chinese woman's look was intimidating: thick limbs, head nearly twice Nina's size. Not fat or slow—Mongolian powerhouse build. Few residents could trade blows with her; she'd KO Seyoung with a pinky flick. Nina vs. her: Achilles and Goliath, gender-swapped title shot.

"So we're letting them fight?"

"Venue?"

Easy reno—pre-apocalypse illegal fight spot. VIP tours ended there under "construction inspection" guise. I always guided; higher-ups liked me despite my pushback on their cash grabs and orders. Tried pretty talkers first—top stewardess, high-end escorts—but they bailed terrified in under two hours, some soaked in piss. They'd just shake heads, teary. Me? "Sorry, sirs," and they'd laugh, "Seo manager's here?"

"Handle as they wish, and all rejoice."

Recalling some old line, I signed the duel order.

Kids pumped her fists wildly.

"You seem more excited than me."

She grinned, waving hands. Her smile always had a creepy edge—but since it's never aimed at me, it's just cute.

"Schedule?"

"Lock down safety. Med team on standby."

I waved good luck. Then curiosity hit.

"Who you betting on?"

Obviously Nina—looks, nationality. My pick.

Her face: kid gleefully mashing dragonfly heads together. Innocent sadism meets wise eyes—eerie harmony.