Chapter 12
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By the time we clear the exit ramp, my pulse is still trying to headbutt its way out of my chest, and the inside of my mouth tastes like copper, ozone, and the sort of relief a man should probably not confuse with joy.
The arena noise follows us down the corridor in rolling bursts—crowd thunder muffled by steel, the whine of drones, Captain Photonic somewhere overhead still talking like he’s personally leading troops into a glorious siege instead of narrating people nearly falling to their deaths for sponsorship money.
Tilda walks beside me with that clipped, efficient stride of hers, all business, no wobble, no visible crash. Sweat has loosened the hair at her temples. Her breathing is measured again. Her face is back under control.
You’d never know that ten minutes ago she was standing on a moving platform over a bottomless drop, barking orders at me like a tiny battlefield commander while I tried not to get us both cooked.
I grin at the thought.
She glances over without turning her head all the way. “What.”
“That was fun.”
She gives me a flat look. “You’re deranged.”
“I’m alive.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Strong overlap, though.”
That almost gets her. I see it—the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth before she strangles it dead and looks away again.
Crew handlers herd us toward recovery stations with the rest of the successful pairs.
Vanna and Pajack are already arguing with the smooth, vicious intimacy of people who exercise recreationally and judge strangers in parking lots.
Zack and Dartha are laughing like they just survived a bar fight together and would happily do it again.
Somewhere ahead, one of the eliminated couples is sobbing so hard it echoes.
The compound always smells sharper after a challenge. Burnt circuitry. hot metal. body salt. antiseptic. victory and panic cooked together under arena lights.
We make it to the hydration tables. I grab two electrolyte packs, toss one to Tilda. She catches it one-handed without looking.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
“Don’t push it.”
I tear mine open with my teeth and squeeze half of it down. It tastes like medicinal berries and regret. Tilda drinks hers slower, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall, already thinking three moves ahead.
I lean one hip against the table and watch her.
It’s not just that she’s tired. Everybody here is tired.
Everybody has bruises, aches, camera fatigue, emotional damage, and a growing spiritual relationship with caffeine.
But Tilda’s exhaustion is different. She carries it like she’s trying to hide a knife in formalwear.
Her shoulders hold too much tension when she thinks no one’s looking.
Her eyes go slightly unfocused at odd moments, like some part of her is never fully here because it’s always doing inventory somewhere else.
Food. Risk. Timing. Worst-case scenarios.
The woman looks at rest the way some people look at crime.
She senses me staring and cuts her gaze toward me. “Why are you making that face?”
“What face?”
“That one.”
I try innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“The concern face.”
“I do not have a concern face.”
She snorts quietly. “You absolutely do. It’s less annoying than your flirting face, but only barely.”
That makes me laugh. “Flirting face. Brutal.”
“I call them as I see them.”
“Then what does your face mean right now?”
“My face means I’d like a shower and six hours of unconsciousness.”
I push off the table. “You didn’t sleep.”
She takes another sip. “I slept.”
“That is a lie so lazy it didn’t even put on shoes.”
Her jaw shifts. Tiny thing. Easy to miss if you haven’t spent enough time studying her mouth in better circumstances. “Bron.”
“You look wrecked.”
“I look normal.”
“You look like you’ve been holding yourself together with spite and scheduling.”
She gives me a long, unimpressed stare. “Aren’t you charming.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t admiration.”
“Still choosing to hear it that way.”
She crushes the empty packet in her fist. “I’m fine.”
I tilt my head. “You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.”
Her expression cools by degrees. Not icy yet. Just controlled. Deliberate.
That tells me I’m close to something.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she’d like me not to keep walking in that direction.
So naturally I want to.
Before I can ruin my life properly, a production runner appears and informs us in a voice full of artificial pep that there’s a mandatory compound break period before evening interviews and confessional pickup.
We’re being encouraged to rest, hydrate, and spend time in designated social zones for “organic capture opportunities,” which is a sentence so grim it nearly makes me miss military jargon.
Tilda exhales through her nose. “Organic capture. Sure.”
“You want me to punch a camera drone on principle?” I offer.
“Yes.”
“Romantic.”
“No.”
She starts walking toward the residential wing. I match her pace.
“You going to sleep?” I ask.
“Attempt to.”
“Attempt?”
She shoots me a look. “Some of us have lives that do not revolve around posturing and near death.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain nonsense.”
“And cheekbones.”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s that tiny almost-smile again. Barely there. Gone before the corridor lights can catch it.
Then we hit the split where the single contestant quarters break off from the family-access suites and restricted childcare wing.
Tilda stops.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just a single stutter in her step, a tiny recalibration.
She turns to me. “I have to go.”
I glance toward the family corridor, then back at her. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“That all the explanation I get?”
She folds her arms. “Why would you get one?”
I grin because I don’t know what else to do with the little sharp stab of curiosity that lands under my ribs every time she puts up a wall I can’t see over. “Because I’m charming. Because shared trauma creates intimacy. Because viewers love a reveal.”
“Goodbye, Bron.”
“Tilda—”
“Goodbye.”
Then she’s gone, shoes whispering over polished flooring, shoulders straight, pace quickening the farther she gets from me.
I stand there in the corridor like an idiot and watch her disappear around the corner into restricted family access.
Huh.
I should go shower. Eat something with actual salt in it. Lie down and be grateful I still possess all my limbs. Instead I find myself staring at the junction with a slow, creeping itch under my skin.
Family access.
Now, I know contestants with dependents get visitation windows.
I’ve heard people mention it. Seen strollers once or twice in the farther lounge areas.
GXC loves its human-interest packaging almost as much as it loves avoidable danger.
Families soften the product. Make suffering marketable.
Put a child in a frame and suddenly the stakes feel righteous.
I’d never thought much about it because, one, I don’t generally spend my free time loitering near daycare facilities like a man one conversation away from a security report, and two, none of it was my business.
But Tilda walking into that corridor with that look on her face—
That is very much my business.
Or, at minimum, it feels like the kind of thing I can make into my business with enough bad judgment.
I wait a respectable four minutes.
Then I head that way.
The family visitation area sits in a quieter wing of the compound, insulated from the main chaos by thick glass partitions, security checkpoints, and lighting that seems designed to calm adults who have recently risked death for sponsorship bonuses.
The air changes as soon as I step inside: less metal, more warm fabric and sanitizer, with a faint sweet smell of fruit packs and powdered formula.
Softer sounds too. Less shouting. More little voices.
Toy chimes. A laugh that rings out high and clear and vanishes.
It hits me strangely, that sound.
The whole place feels like an artificial pocket of mercy somebody bolted onto the side of a circus.
A bored security tech glances at my badge when I drift past the first lounge threshold. “Contestant access only in public family commons unless invited farther in.”
I flash him my most harmless smile. “Public family commons. Got it. I’m not here to kidnap a toddler.”
He doesn’t smile. Tough room.
Inside, there are clusters of seating, low tables, padded play zones, a refreshment alcove, and several partitioned visitation nooks screened by frosted smartglass.
Everything is cleaner than the rest of the compound.
Brighter. Gentler. It makes me feel enormous and somehow more disreputable than usual.
A little girl with violet braids runs past chasing a floating foam ring. A harried man in a sponsor jacket trails after her saying, “No running, baby, please—absolutely not toward the fountain—”
I wander farther in, trying to look like I belong anywhere in the vicinity of structured tenderness.
Why am I here?
Curiosity, obviously.
Suspicion, if I’m being uglier about it.
Something else too, though. Something I don’t want to name because naming it might make it real.
I slow near a row of viewing windows overlooking an enclosed outdoor courtyard.
Artificial sunlight pours across climbing structures and soft turf.
A few children are out there with caretakers.
One toddles after bubbles with all the solemn determination of a future emperor.
Two older boys are building something doomed out of foam blocks.
Then I hear her laugh.
Tilda’s laugh.
Not the dry little huff she gives me when I’m being a jackass. Not the startled sound from the course earlier. This is fuller. Lower. Warm all the way through.
I turn toward it before I can stop myself.