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  The elevator opened with a breathy hiss and a push of sterile air.

  Ashe stepped out cautiously, his bare soles meeting a gssy white floor that curved ever so slightly beneath him—as though he were standing inside the top of a vast sphere. The cube’s hum was gone, repced by a faint resonance that trembled through his bones, soft and musical, like feedback from an instrument tuning itself.

  The chamber was enormous—maybe fifty feet across, its curved white surface fading into haze before rising overhead to meet itself. A perfect dome, seamless and depthless, its edges lost in haze.

  At the center hovered two rge paddles, spinning zily in the air. The closest one’s handle pointed toward him, beckoning, its reflection glimmering on the gss floor even though there was no visible light source. Beside it, a sphere of translucent energy—faintly golden, faintly alive—rotated in pce with a sound somewhere between a heartbeat and a bell.

  Ashe swallowed hard, the sound loud in his ears.

  No instructions. No countdown. Just the empty hush of a pce waiting to decide what kind of world it wanted to be.

  He took a tentative step forward. His reflection stretched and warped beneath his feet, as though the floor were a lens rather than a surface. The air felt heavy, charged with the promise of movement—like the pause before thunder broke.

  Then a voice, smooth and androgynous, rippled from nowhere and everywhere at once:

  “Competitive Trial — Awaiting Both Participants.”

  The words echoed softly, then faded back into silence.

  Ashe exhaled. “Both?” he murmured. His pulse quickened.

  He gnced at the floating paddle again; its slow rotation kept perfect rhythm with the beat in his chest. The emptiness felt different now—not isotion, but anticipation. For the first time since he had woken in the cube, someone else would be here. Someone real.

  He smoothed his palms against his skirt, trying to ignore the slick nervous sweat, and forced himself to stand a little straighter.

  The elevator across the room gave a soft hydraulic sigh.

  Light spilled across the curved floor.

  A silhouette filled the elevator doorway—broad-shouldered, steady, framed by the rising fog of the chamber’s soft light.

  The man stepped forward with the unhurried confidence of someone used to gravity doing what he told it to. His jumpsuit was the same neutral gray, but it fit him differently—drawn snug across his chest and shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbow, colr unzipped just enough to suggest defiance rather than carelessness. The fabric caught faint highlights along his forearms, tracing muscle more than motion.

  When he lifted his gaze, the light caught a faint scar tracing the angle of his jaw. His expression was neutral at first, then broke into a crooked, almost knowing grin.

  “So you’re the one I’ve been hearing about.”

  His voice was rich, low, the kind that vibrated more than it echoed. Ashe didn’t answer right away—too busy reconciling the voice with the name he had seen on system messages.

  J.H.

  The man who had sent soup. Bnkets. Running water.

  He had pictured someone distant, maybe cold—clinical generosity without face or motive. But standing here, J.H. looked disarmingly alive. Tanned skin. Faint ugh lines. Eyes that seemed to scan Ashe with quiet amusement rather than cruelty. He felt oddly familiar.

  Where have I seen him before?

  Ashe’s throat worked around a dry swallow. “You’re… J.H.?”

  “Last I checked.”

  He drifted another step forward, boots whispering over the curved floor. “Didn’t expect the system to pit me against my favorite charity case, though.”

  Ashe bristled. “I didn’t ask for—”

  He stopped himself, gncing at the still-hovering paddles beside them, then back at J.H. “—whatever this is.”

  “Guess we’ll find out,” J.H. said easily. His grin didn’t fade, but something sharper glinted behind it, like a bde sheathed in charm. “Name’s Jimmy, if you prefer something human. I prefer to go by J.H., though. Easier to curse under your breath.”

  He crossed his arms, looking around the chamber as if inspecting an old gym. “Never seen anything like it, except for those.” J.H. pointed to the paddles. “Not quite tennis paddles, but close.”

  The voice from above interrupted with its polished neutrality:

  “Pyers confirmed. Trial initializing. Objective: strike the orb into your opponent’s field. Gravity suspension begins on countdown.”

  Ashe barely had time to exhale before the floor beneath his feet vibrated—a low mechanical hum rising through his bones.

  J.H. looked down at his boots, then at Ashe.

  “Hope you’re quick on your feet, Lil-Duck.”

  Ashe’s ears burned. “Don’t call me tha—!” His defiance broke into a startled squeal as the sudden drop in gravity sent his dress fluttering upward. He cmped both hands down to keep it from flying higher, mortified at the thought of fshing his opponent before the match even began. When he finally looked back up, cheeks bzing with a mix of anger and embarrassment, J.H. was already grinning—clearly amused by his floundering.

  The chamber lights dimmed. The orb between them fred brighter, shedding gold and white motes like fireflies.

  With each passing second, a shudder could be felt in the room, and Ashe felt even lighter.

  “Three…”

  J.H. stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders like an athlete before a match.

  “Two…”

  Ashe’s pulse drummed against his ribs.

  “One.”

  The floor vanished beneath them.

  Weightlessness bloomed.

  A pulse of light rippled across the arena’s curved surface, spreading outward like a dropped pebble in a pond. The disembodied voice returned, calm and clinical:

  “Welcome, participants. Challenge type: Zero-Gravity Rally. First pyer to five goals wins the match. Boundaries are active. Collisions reduce score by one.”

  As the announcement echoed, dozens of small metallic fixtures blinked into view across the chamber—some anchored along the dome’s walls, others drifting slowly like debris in orbit. Ashe realized they weren’t random obstacles; they were unch points. Round enough to grip, matte enough to catch a shoe or palm.

  “Contact surfaces provided for directional momentum. Avoid prolonged contact. Recoil penalties apply.”

  Two slim bracelets floated toward them, glowing bands of silver and blue light. They rotated zily in the air, waiting.

  J.H. caught his with one hand and gave it a quick spin before snapping it onto his wrist; it sealed itself with a hiss.

  Ashe hesitated, watching his circle his forearm before doing the same. The instant it clicked shut, a soft vibration buzzed under his skin—not painful, just aware, like a new limb waiting to be tested.

  “Bracelet units online. Directional thrusters active at fifty percent capacity. Use for mid-air correction only. Continuous use will trigger cooldown.”

  J.H. raised his arm, flexed his wrist, and a faint hiss of compressed air nudged him half a step sideways. He grinned.

  “Guess they don’t want us floating off forever.”

  Ashe tried his own, jerking slightly backward, then overcorrecting, feeling a lot less certain about this than he had mere moments ago.

  “Okay,” he muttered, steadying himself. “That’s… something.”

  “The match will begin on system countdown. During pre-flight phase, participants may test maneuvering systems.”

  The hum in the air deepened. A few of the floating nodes began to drift in slow, looping orbits, giving the illusion of a starfield in motion. J.H. pushed off from one of the fixed anchors, drifting smoothly across the space before using a brief thruster burst to pivot midair.

  He moved with easy precision, his body nguage confident—the ease of a man used to hard bor, used to trusting his muscles.

  Ashe, meanwhile, floated awkwardly after a cautious push, his dress clinging around his legs. He used the jets to steady himself, heart pounding at the dizzy freedom of it.

  For the first time, the cube felt vast.

  “Calibrations complete. Match commencing shortly. Orb and paddles will remain neutral until the countdown.”

  The glowing sphere between them pulsed brighter, casting soft halos over their faces. J.H. rotated zily until he faced Ashe, paddle in hand, grin sharp and expectant.

  “Ready to fly, Lil-Duck?”

  Ashe shot him a gre, gripping his paddle tight. “You’ll eat those words.”

  The lights dimmed again, and the voice whispered its final cue:

  “Three… Two… One…”

  Across the arena, J.H. floated with effortless control, one hand gripping a stationary node, the other steadying the paddle. He looked born to it—calm, confident, comfortable in his own motion.

  The glowing sphere pulsed once, twice—then unched itself toward Ashe with a gentle, almost teasing speed.

  He flinched, swung too early, and sent himself backward in a slow tumble while the ball pinged off the wall and rebounded zily toward J.H. A brief huff of ughter drifted across the chamber.

  “Don’t panic, rookie. It’s not trying to bite.”

  Ashe groaned, twisting midair to face the ball again. His bracelet hissed as he overused the microjets, sending him spinning off-kilter. He caught himself against a nearby anchor point and pushed forward, forcing his body into something resembling bance.

  The ball arced toward him again—slower this time. J.H. wasn’t smashing it; he was feeding him chances.

  Ashe exhaled through his nose, waiting, counting heartbeats. At the perfect moment, he flicked his wrist and tapped the orb. It pinged lightly off his paddle and sailed upward in a clean parabo.

  For the first time, it didn’t veer wildly.

  “Better,” J.H. called. He twisted, caught the rebound with an easy forehand, and sent it gliding back with a faint golden trail. “Try using your legs more. You’ve got good control—don’t waste it filing.”

  Ashe scowled. “I’m not filing—!”

  He missed again, the orb zipping past his shoulder and bouncing off the goal ring behind him. A soft chime sounded.

  “Score: J.H., one point.”

  Ashe bit down a curse, regaining his bearings with an angry puff from the jets.

  J.H. just grinned. “Warm-up round. You’ll get it.”

  The next serve came faster, though still not at full strength. J.H. batted the orb from odd angles—testing Ashe, watching how he moved. Ashe caught on quickly, adjusting the timing of his thrusts to pivot in midair and meet the ball head-on. When he finally returned one cleanly, the impact echoed like a heartbeat through the dome.

  Their volleys began to build rhythm: tap, glide, spin, rebound. The soft hum of thrusters filled the chamber like the breathing of two machines learning to dance.

  Then J.H. changed the angle.

  The orb came in from below this time, ricocheting upward at a speed that made Ashe’s eyes widen. He reached instinctively, caught the paddle underhand, and sent it back with an awkward sp that barely cleared the midpoint. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked.

  A spark of pride lit in his chest. He even smiled—until J.H. leaned into his next hit with visible force. The ball screamed across the chamber in a streak of gold.

  Ashe yelped, twisted out of the way, and the orb smmed into the boundary wall behind him, bouncing harmlessly off the field.

  “Careful,” J.H. called, smirking. “Wouldn’t want to break anything before the fun starts.”

  Ashe steadied himself again, eyes narrowing.

  “Are you teaching me,” he said, voice sharp, “or toying with me?”

  J.H. gave a one-shouldered shrug, paddle spinning in his hand.

  “Both.”

  The next rally started faster. J.H. didn’t announce it; he simply flicked his wrist, and the orb shot toward Ashe like a comet.

  This time, Ashe didn’t panic. He twisted, exhaled, and used a single short burst from his wrist thruster to pivot midair. The motion lined up perfectly—the paddle met the orb with a crisp, ringing ping that sent it arcing back across the chamber in a clean, controlled curve.

  The surprise hit both of them.

  J.H.’s grin widened. “There you go,” he said, catching the rebound with casual precision and sending it back, harder this time.

  Ashe chased the orb, instincts taking over. He moved from node to node with short, purposeful bursts, his brain finally syncing to the rhythm of weightlessness. His limbs stopped filing. He was gliding, turning, pushing off obstacles in quick, fluid patterns that almost felt natural.

  He was pying.

  But grace came at a price.

  Every sharp turn or stretch sent his skirt fring out again, the fabric floating around his thighs like an accusation. More than once, he had to snap a hand downward mid-py to keep from giving his opponent an unintentional show.

  “Unfair uniform,” he muttered under his breath, batting the orb backhanded.

  J.H. caught the shot with a ugh. “Distracting, maybe—for both of us.”

  “Then stop looking!”

  Honestly, what was so distracting about another man in a dress? A cute girl sure—he’d understand. Still, he shouldn’t have said it. His face went hot, but his movements didn’t falter. Each volley came faster now—Ashe darting, redirecting, turning his ck of strength into an advantage by using the thruster’s micro-bursts to alter trajectory midair.

  A rhythm took shape.

  He would spin, tap the orb, drift, pivot off a floating node, catch it again before it could veer too far.

  J.H. met every shot easily, but there was a flicker of genuine focus behind his grin now—a subtle shift from indulgent amusement to mild surprise.

  “You’ve got reflexes,” he called. “Where’d you learn to move like that?”

  “Trying not to die, mostly!” Ashe shouted back, smming the orb in a low arc.

  It clipped one of the floating anchors, ricocheted unpredictably, and slipped just past J.H.’s outstretched hand.

  The system chimed:

  “Point: Ashe.”

  For the briefest moment, Ashe forgot about the dress, the heat in his cheeks, the tight grip of the bracelet on his wrist. Floating there, breathless and beaming, he felt something dangerously close to pride.

  The lights above them dimmed to amber, and a low hum rippled through the chamber. The voice returned, smooth and detached:

  “Phase Two: Spin Field Activated. Caution—gravitational interference in py.”

  The orb fred gold, its steady rotation accelerating until it began drawing faint trails of light through the air. Everything that drifted too close—loose hair, the hem of Ashe’s dress, even the smaller push-off nodes—started to tug gently toward it.

  Ashe braced himself, gripping a nearby fixture.

  “Great,” he muttered. “Now it’s got moods.”

  J.H. only grinned. “Adapt or fall, rookie.”

  The next serve screamed toward him. Ashe met it mid-spin, the impact sending him cartwheeling backward, but he recovered fast. He used a double burst from his jets to pivot and strike again, countering at a sharper angle. The orb ricocheted across the chamber, kissed the wall, and curved right back toward the center—drawn by the magnetic pull of the Spin Field.

  J.H. was ready. He intercepted easily, muscles flexing under his jumpsuit as he sent it back with a controlled whip that made the air hiss.

  The tempo doubled.

  The two of them moved in near silence—no taunts now, just breath and motion. Sweat beaded along their necks and forearms, glinting in the white light before breaking free to drift between them like slow, liquid stars. Every hit rang out like struck gss; every miss burst into a scatter of glowing dust that spiraled zily through the air before rejoining the golden orb.

  Ashe found himself smiling through the adrenaline. He wasn’t winning, but he was keeping up.

  Still, the effort was getting dangerous. Sweat stung his eyes, his skirt refused to stay down, and the weightless pull of the spin field made every movement unpredictable. He twisted mid-swing to block a high shot and felt cool air brush across bare skin—too much of it.

  Not now.

  He tried to keep one hand near his hemline without losing focus, but that tiny distraction let J.H. slip a point past him.

  “Score: J.H., four. Ashe, three.”

  J.H. chuckled between breaths. “You’re fast, but you’ve gotta loosen up.”

  “I can’t loosen up!” Ashe snapped. “Everything’s flying everywhere!”

  “Maybe that’s working for you,” J.H. said, tone half-tease, half-genuine encouragement. “You’ve got rhythm—don’t fight it.”

  The words hit harder than they should have. Ashe clenched his teeth, refocused on the orb spinning zily between them. It pulsed once, drawing their reflections across its surface like twin comets.

  Final rally.

  The orb unched itself high into the air, just above the reach of either pyer. Ashe followed its path with his eyes, his mind racing. If he could catch it on the downswing—cut it just right—he could angle it straight into J.H.’s goal.

  But the only way to reach it was to stretch—and he knew what that meant.

  His heart hammered. For half a second, doubt caught him.

  He pushed off the nearest node with everything he had.

  He soared upward, hair and dress both caught in the Spin Field’s current. The skirt fred in a wide circle as he twisted midair, exposing him from below. Some scrap of instinct kept him from full disaster—his thighs snapped up and together, preserving at least a shred of modesty—but the pose left him arching through the air in a way that could only be described as brazenly lunar.

  J.H. froze for the briefest instant—his eyes flicking up, his breath catching.

  (Unscensored: https://i.imgur.com/rdNUJob.png)

  Ashe swung.

  The paddle cracked against the orb with a perfect, ringing note, sending it screaming down in a golden blur straight into J.H.’s goal field.

  The system chimed:

  “Point: Ashe. Score tied, four to four.”

  He hung there for a moment, his body buzzing with adrenaline. Caught in the glow of his little victory, he didn’t even care what J.H. had seen. Hell, part of him wanted to shout across the arena and tell him to eat his ass.

  That smug thought died instantly when the orb shot past him at inhuman speed, streaking so close it ruffled his hair.

  J.H. had already recovered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, the flush in his ears barely hidden.

  “Hell of a move,” he said quietly, voice threaded with amusement. “Almost made me take you seriously there for a second. Didn’t see that one coming.” He punctuated it with a pyful wink.

  Ashe blinked, pulled from the fog of adrenaline, his voice shaky—caught somewhere between pride and mortification.

  “You weren’t supposed to.”

  The orb dimmed between them, its light fading, but J.H.’s grin lingered—and Ashe couldn’t tell if he had just won or lost something bigger.

  sUWUly