The two sports commentators, Milo and Leo, were adjusting their headsets, surrounded by glowing monitors and the frantic energy of the production crew.
Milo, the younger of the two, was caught in the pre-match hype. A heavy bass-heavy track was thumping through the arena speakers; a remix of a 90s Britpop anthem that had become the unofficial theme of the night. Not realizing the feed had already switched to the "Digital Pass" early access, Leo began to shamelessly dance. He was doing a rhythmic, awkward shuffle, air-punching to the beat with his microphone in one hand and a bagel in the other.
Milo was mid-spin, finger-guns pointed directly at the lens, a wide, goofy grin plastered across his face. He froze. For ten agonizing seconds, three hundred thousand streaming viewers saw Milo Kael, the "Serious Face of Combat Sports," looking like a dad at a wedding after three glasses of champagne.
He dropped back into his seat so fast he nearly missed the cushion. He smoothed his hair with a trembling hand, his face transitioning from bright red to a forced, professional mask in the blink of an eye.
Milo leaned forward, the dancing forgotten as his journalistic instincts — the ones Delaney Schulz had been sharpening with 'leaked' tips for months — took over.
Milo's eyes scanned the front row, landing on a young boy with a pale, haunted face clutching a professional camera: Viktor.
Milo stopped. He looked at Leo.
Leo wasn't looking back. His younger partner had gone rigid, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard the knuckles were turning white. Leo's headset hummed with a sharp, digital feedback that only he could hear — until a new frequency took over.
Leo's eyes widened. He reached for his volume dial, but it spun uselessly under his fingers.
Leo didn't answer. Delaney's voice was a needle in his brain now.
Leo looked down. The pre-planned stats were gone. In their place, a single paragraph glowed in harsh, white letters:
Milo's hands were shaking under the desk. He looked at the Fighter, who was standing in the red corner, staring blankly at the canvas. He looked at the camera, then back at the prompter.
He felt Delaney's presence like a ghost sitting in the chair beside him. He took a breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, and began to read the words that would end the Fighter's life before a single punch was thrown.
Across the arena, the Fighter's head snapped up. He didn't look at his opponent. He looked at the speakers, hearing his own destruction being broadcasted to the world in Milo Kael's silver-tongued voice.
In the press pit, Viktor watched this happen.
Viktor realized Delaney had hijacked the broadcast and tried to find the signal source. He saw the Fighter's knees buckle — not from a hit, but from the words coming over the PA system. He heard Milo, the man who had narrated his greatest victories, calling him a sociopath.
Viktor flinched. He could hear the feedback loop. He could see the Fighter's spirit breaking in real-time. He looked at the VIP section, where the Phantom was leaning over the railing, a wide, plastic-looking smile on his face, mirroring the Fighter's exact posture of defeat. Beside him stood his sister, Dani — still, watchful, her eyes moving across the arena like she was trying to make sense of the geometry of it all. She wasn't used to coming to these things. She leaned slightly toward her brother and asked, just loud enough to be heard under the noise,
He smiled like he didn't understand yet what was actually happening.
The opponent, sensing the opening, stepped forward. A heavy, unanswered jab caught the Fighter square in the jaw. His head snapped back, but his eyes stayed fixed on the broadcast booth — fixed on Leo, the man who was currently burying him alive in front of millions.
Milo Kael wasn't just a commentator; he was a fan of the game. He knew the rhythm of a broadcast, the ebb and flow of professional banter. But as Leo started speaking — using words like sociopath and medical anomaly — the air in the booth turned freezing.
His head snapped toward Leo, his eyes wide behind his headset. This wasn't the buddy he'd worked with for six years. Leo's voice was hollow, his eyes fixed on the teleprompter with a glazed, hypnotic intensity that looked more like a hostage video than a sports broadcast.
Leo didn't even blink. He was a passenger in his own body. Delaney's voice was a jagged hook in his ear.
Leo looked up at the production glass, waving his arms at the floor manager, but the crew was frozen. They were staring at their own monitors, watching a secondary feed that Leo couldn't see. The entire broadcast infrastructure had been hollowed out, replaced by the Recording Angel's architecture.
In the ring, the Fighter staggered. The jab hadn't just hit his face; the words had hit his soul. He looked up at the booth, seeing Leo's frantic struggle against Milo's eerie, statue-like stillness. He could see the hijacking in progress.
Click.
Leo's mic went dead. He tapped it frantically, but the "On Air" light stayed dark for him, while Milo's light glowed a fierce, predatory red.
Delaney's voice hummed in Milo's ear, amused.
Milo's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Leo. He didn't look at the Fighter. He just kept reading, his voice a steady, rhythmic hammer-blow against the silence of the arena.
Leo slumped back in his chair, staring at Milo in horror. It wasn't just a "hot take" or a "bad clip." It was a digital execution. He looked down at the press pit and saw the boy — Viktor — who had dropped his camera and was covering his ears, his face twisted in a mirror of Leo's own shock.
The Fighter turned away from the booth and looked at his opponent, who was hesitating, confused by the lack of a fight. For a moment, the arena was silent, save for Milo's voice — cold and constant, narrating the end of a man who was still standing.
The fight was postponed before the second bell. Not due to injury. Not due to a technical fault anyone could point to on paper. The official statement, released forty minutes later, cited "broadcast irregularities and unverified information disseminated during live coverage." No one in the arena believed that was the whole story. But it was the story they were given, and for tonight, it would have to be enough.