The city is broken. Has been for a long time. Corruption, gang wars, and uprisings drift like dark clouds over the skyline of the capital. The system lies shattered, like a bottle of glass, carelessly thrown away, ending as shards in the gutter. A nameless capital, divided into nine districts, ruled by clans, corporations, and gangs. Where law is nothing but a hollow phrase, a system thrives that turns pain into spectacle.

Wealthy sponsors distract the masses from their despair, placing bets on lives and stories. To thunderous applause, they send their fighters into the merciless spotlight of the steel cage.

‘The Dollhouse’ is the beating heart of this modern version of bread and circuses: velvet over steel, music over screams. Here they crown fighters as queens, and behind the curtains, turn them into servants. None of them are truly happy. Some bathe in applause, others suffocate beneath it.

‘Sponsors’, that’s what they call the men, and the few women, who manage and market these fighters. Contracts speak of care, support, and management. In truth, it’s modern gladiatorship, neatly legalized on paper. A successful fighter makes her sponsor rich: through victories, popularity, merchandise, media exposure. In return, they pay for housing, training, outfits, performances, but not freedom. Sponsors decide what the audience sees: costume, music, attitude, even the name. Those who resist are replaced. Those who try to quit… sometimes simply vanish.

Bastet is a “client” of ‚Celestia Division‘, a company that polishes and markets its fighters like idols. Her image: the untouchable beauty, sweet, strong, flawless, kawaii. Her cage: velvet lined with barbed wire. Bastet knows her role. She performs it perfectly, rehearsed through years of harsh training, sweat, and secret tears. Her sponsor never speaks to her directly. But Bastet knows exactly who holds the camera when she steps into the light, and who would turn it off if she ever spoke too much.

Tonight, one fight already lies behind her. Bastet glides from the ring, every motion rehearsed, every gesture calculated. For the photographers, she pauses, posing, smiling, turning her head to her best side. She laughs, blows kisses, waves. Nods at the cheers, giggles at the reporters’ bold remarks.

Sometimes, she feels dizzy, from adrenaline, from the lights, from the mask. Smile. Posture. Delicate, yet fierce. Not a single motion out of place. Inside, the fight still roars, yet the crowd no longer hears her. No faces, only flashlights, signs, blurred outlines.

With the stride of a supermodel, smiling, graceful, poised, Bastet walks the red carpet back toward the Dollhouse’s backstage area. Of course, she has her own dressing room, the luxury of silence before the next performance. A small privilege for one of the top contenders. Her style, her face, her brand, they make money. A lot of it.

Just as her smile begins to fade, she notices a silhouette at the end of the corridor. She doesn’t stop. But something within her tenses, barely visible, like a cat before the leap.

“Ah… looking for me, meow?” A deliberate flutter of lashes, the smile sliding back into place. “Want an autograph?”