The Scrap-Heap Deadline

The HUD inside the Iron Lung flickered, casting a sickly, pulse-weak amber glow over Kaelen Vane’s face. In the top-left corner of his vision, the Tower’s recall timer counted down with rhythmic, soul-crushing precision: 59:42. It wasn’t just a clock; it was an eviction notice.

"Vane, step out of the frame," a voice boomed through the hangar’s localized speakers. It was Overseer Thorne’s lead enforcer, his silhouette framed by the harsh, sterile lights of the lower-ring transit bay. "The salvage lottery closed ten minutes ago. You’re operating a Class-D relic on an expired permit. That’s a forfeiture of assets."

Kaelen didn’t look back. His hands danced over the haptic array, feeling the familiar, grinding resistance of the Iron Lung’s actuators. The machine was a graveyard of scavenged parts—a patchwork of rusted plating and exposed wiring that smelled of ozone and stale hydraulic fluid. It was the only thing he had left of his father’s legacy, and it was currently being hunted.

"Permit’s valid until the floor trial starts," Kaelen retorted, his voice tight. He keyed a command into the diagnostic console. The system groaned, a deep, metallic protest that vibrated through his spine. "I’m already registered for the Entry-Level Proving Ground."

"The registry was purged," the enforcer replied, stepping closer, his hand hovering over the mag-lock release on his own sleek, high-tier frame.

Kaelen didn't wait for the debate to turn into a seizure. He slammed his fist into the emergency launch sequence, bypassing the safety interlock. The Iron Lung shrieked as the hangar doors hissed open, venting atmosphere. Gravity shifted, and the frame lurched forward, plummeting into the dark maw of the Proving Ground. The hangar doors slammed shut behind him, sealing him inside a trial he was technically prohibited from taking.

Inside the arena, the air turned into a caustic slurry

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