Chapter 16
brON
Morning arrives with the particular cruelty of bright light and inconvenient clarity.
I wake slowly, the way a man does when his brain is still sorting through the wreckage of the previous night, and for several long seconds I simply stare at the unfamiliar ceiling panels above Tilda’s bed while my body remembers things my better judgment would rather forget.
The compound quarters smell faintly of clean sheets, citrus soap from the shower dispensers, and the warm lingering trace of another person’s skin.
The room is quiet except for the distant hum of ventilation systems and the muffled thud of early risers moving around the hallway outside.
Then I turn my head slightly and see Tilda standing near the small kitchenette counter, fully dressed and already halfway through a cup of coffee like she’s trying to burn the last traces of sleep out of her bloodstream.
“Well,” I say hoarsely, “that feels ominous.”
She doesn’t turn around.
“It’s morning,” she replies.
“Not the part I meant.”
She takes another sip of coffee before finally glancing over her shoulder at me. The look she gives me is calm, controlled, and deeply suspicious of my existence.
“Good morning, Bron.”
“Morning,” I say, sitting up slowly and scrubbing a hand through my hair. My muscles protest the movement with a familiar ache from yesterday’s elimination challenge, but the discomfort barely registers compared to the heavier realization settling in my chest.
We crossed a line last night.
Not the kind you can casually step back over.
“You regret it,” I say.
She sets the cup down on the counter with deliberate precision.
“Yes.”
“That was quick.”
“It was inevitable.”
I lean back against the headboard and watch her for a moment. The early morning light from the compound courtyard filters through the narrow window panels, painting a pale stripe across the floor and catching the copper highlights in her hair.
“You know,” I say, “most people at least pretend to be conflicted before jumping straight to regret.”
She folds her arms.
“I am conflicted.”
“That’s comforting.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“Bron.”
“What?”
“We cannot do that again.”
“That sounded less like a suggestion and more like a policy memo.”
“It’s a policy memo.”
I sigh and swing my legs off the side of the bed.
“Right,” I mutter. “Good talk.”
For a moment the room settles into an awkward silence filled with the faint clatter of contestants starting their morning routines in nearby quarters. The smell of coffee drifts toward me, sharp and bitter in the quiet space.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling faintly.
“Still,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “nice to confirm the chemistry’s intact.”
Tilda stares at me like she’s debating whether throwing the coffee mug would technically count as assault.
Then my comm buzzes.
The vibration cuts through the room like a warning bell.
I glance down at the screen.
The sender ID makes my stomach drop immediately.
Mysk.
The message opens with the theatrical flair only a man obsessed with gangster movies would think appropriate.
Four days, Bronwyn.
The curtains close soon.
A photo loads beneath the text.
It’s a still frame from the broadcast feed of yesterday’s rally race, zoomed in tight enough that my face fills most of the image.
Another message follows immediately.
Win fast. Or I start collecting in other ways.
The air seems to thin around me.
I lock the screen before Tilda can see it and slide the comm onto the bedside table.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make lots of faces.”
“That one looked expensive.”
“Just a reminder message.”
“From who?”
“Promoter,” I say easily.
The lie comes out smoother than I’d like.
Tilda studies me for a second longer than is comfortable, then finally nods and returns to her coffee.
Good.
Because the last thing I need right now is explaining that a theatrical crime boss plans to murder me if I don’t win a reality show in the next few days.
Instead I stand and stretch slowly, feeling the tight pull of muscle fatigue along my shoulders.
“What’s today’s challenge?” I ask.
She taps her tablet and flicks the briefing screen open in the air between us.
The holographic projection expands into a rotating model of the arena.
I whistle.
“Well,” I say, “that looks unfriendly.”
The structure resembles a multi-level fortress built entirely out of moving obstacles and combat hazards. Rotating walls. Energy barriers. Narrow suspension bridges. Automated defense drones drifting through designated corridors.
A caption appears beneath the map.
TACTICAL ASSAULT COURSE
Tilda sighs.
“Of course it is.”
“What’s the plan, boss?”
She folds her arms and studies the layout.
“You clear the physical threats.”
“And you?”
“I navigate the hazard grid.”
“Meaning you tell me where not to die.”
“Yes.”
“Solid system.”
She glances at me.
“You’ll actually listen this time?”
I grin.
“Probably.”
The arena smells like steel, dust, and the faint electric sting of active energy fields.
Contestants gather at the starting platforms while the crowd roars above us from the stadium tiers. Bright lights burn overhead, turning every piece of metal into something harsh and reflective.
Tilda stands beside me examining the tactical map projected onto her wrist display.
“You see those rotating barriers?” she says.
“The ones trying to crush people?”
“Yes.”
“Hard to miss.”
“They’re synchronized with the drone patrols.”
“Of course they are.”
Her finger traces a path through the grid.
“If we time it correctly, we can move between rotations without triggering the automated turrets.”
“And if we time it incorrectly?”
“Then you get shot.”
I grin.
“Motivating.”
The starting horn sounds.
Immediately the arena erupts into chaos.
Contestants sprint across the first section of platforms while defense drones swing low overhead, firing short bursts of stun pulses that flash through the air like angry lightning.
“Twelve o’clock!” Tilda shouts.
I duck as a pulse cracks past my shoulder.
The drone dips again.
This time I jump.
My hand catches the underside of the machine and I slam it into the nearest wall hard enough to shatter its stabilizers.
It falls smoking to the floor.
“Nice,” Tilda says breathlessly.
“Thank you.”
We sprint across the first rotating bridge just as the metal plates shift positions with a grinding roar.
“Left!” she calls.
I pivot instantly, trusting her instinct the way I’ve learned to over the last few challenges.
A turret pops up from the floor and fires.
The bolt scorches past my ear.
“Little warning next time,” I shout.
“That was the warning!”
Fair enough.
The course grows nastier the farther we move into it.
Collapsing platforms.
Energy barriers flickering on and off.
Drones that move faster with every passing minute.
Several couples fall behind us when the first heavy barricade swings across the corridor, forcing them into a longer route through the defense grid.
Tilda grabs my arm and pulls me toward a narrow maintenance walkway.
“This way.”
“That path looks illegal.”
“That path is efficient.”
Good enough.
We squeeze through the narrow corridor while two drones attempt to follow us inside.
Bad idea.
The space is too tight for them to maneuver properly.
I grab the first one mid-turn and smash it into the second.
Both machines drop like angry metallic birds.
“You’re enjoying this,” Tilda says.
“Little bit.”
We reach the final section of the course just as the remaining couples begin collapsing behind us.
The finish platform waits beyond a field of moving barriers that shift positions like sliding walls in a maze.
Tilda scans the pattern quickly.
“Wait for the third rotation.”
“Okay.”
“One…”
Metal walls grind sideways.
“Two…”
Energy fields crackle.
“Three—go!”
We sprint.
The barrier shifts again just behind us as we dive through the final opening and crash onto the finish platform.
The horn blasts.
The scoreboard updates.
TOP FIVE FINISH
The crowd explodes into cheers.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the stadium lights, breathing hard.
Tilda stands beside me, hands on her hips as she watches the results board.
“Well,” she says quietly.
“That worked.”
I grin.
“Look at us.”
She glances down.
“You actually followed instructions.”
“Shocking.”
But the truth settles quietly inside my chest as I stand up and brush the dust from my arms.
I’m not just trying to win anymore.
Not just trying to stay alive long enough to pay off a crime boss with terrible taste in metaphors.
I’m trying to prove something.
To Tilda.
To myself.
And maybe—if the arithmetic in my head turns out to be true—to someone else entirely.
Because if that kid is mine, then the last thing he deserves is a father who only shows up when it’s convenient.
Which means one thing becomes painfully clear as the scoreboard flashes our names near the top of the rankings.
I have to win this.
Not for the prize.
For the future I might already be responsible for.