Frank Sanders thought he was done with killing.
At least, that was always the plan.

For more than a decade, he built a smaller life around that belief. Honest work. Quiet days. A butcher’s block instead of a weapon, routine instead of rage. Whatever he once was, whatever he did to survive, he left it buried with the people he lost and made a point of not digging it back up.

Plans, unfortunately, are fragile things.

When the dungeon takes him, it does so without warning and without consent. One moment Frank is standing in the cold stillness of a meat locker, the next he is buried deep beneath the Earth, sealed inside the Sigma Dungeon Complex. Humanity has been drafted into a galactic survival trial, broadcast to an audience that treats extinction as entertainment. Less than one percent are chosen. The rest never even realise the fight has begun.

Paired with a razor-tongued overseer trapped in the body of a pygmy pig, Frank is forced to survive inside a system where good intentions mean precisely jack shit.

When the dungeon grants Frank a predator’s sight, a way of seeing flesh, bone, and the most efficient route through a body, it is not a gift. It is an evaluation.

Frank does not want to kill.
He simply knows how.

And in a place like this, that turns out to be a far more marketable skill than he ever intended to possess.