Chapter 17
TILDA
The compound wakes early after a strong finish.
It always does.
Success is contagious in a place like this, and nothing energizes contestants quite like seeing their names climb higher on the ranking boards while the field quietly thins behind them.
The morning air carries a strange mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline, like the entire complex is running on three hours of sleep and sheer stubbornness.
From the balcony outside the training hall I can hear the distant hum of maintenance drones repairing yesterday’s arena damage and the low roar of spectators already gathering in the stadium tiers for whatever spectacle the producers have prepared next.
I stand near the edge of the training platform, tablet in hand, pretending to review the day’s obstacle schematics while my attention drifts repeatedly toward the far end of the room.
Bron is running drills.
That alone would not be unusual. Contestants train constantly between challenges, especially once the field shrinks and the margin for error disappears. What is unusual is how he is training.
Bron Verak has never been particularly fond of structure.
The man built half his reputation on improvisation and bad ideas delivered with confident timing.
He is the sort of person who jumps first and then assumes gravity will sort itself out afterward.
I learned that about him very early in our relationship, back when I still thought reckless charisma was charming rather than terrifying.
But the man across the room right now is doing something different.
He is listening.
One of the tactical trainers—a broad-shouldered woman with a shaved head and the patient demeanor of someone who has spent years yelling at soldiers—is explaining a timing exercise involving rotating platforms and staggered drone patrol patterns.
Bron stands there with his arms crossed, nodding occasionally while she talks.
And when she finishes?
He asks a question.
A thoughtful question.
I lower the tablet slightly.
“What the hell,” I murmur under my breath.
He runs the drill exactly the way she describes it. No shortcuts. No dramatic leaps across moving obstacles. No attempt to show off.
Just precise movement.
Deliberate pacing.
He clears the course cleanly.
The trainer nods approvingly.
Bron thanks her.
Actually thanks her.
I stare at the scene like I’m watching someone swap out the laws of physics.
“You look confused.”
The voice comes from my right.
I glance over to see Zack leaning against the railing beside me with a bottle of water in one hand and a grin on his face.
“I am confused,” I say.
He follows my gaze toward the training floor.
“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Your partner.”
“My problem,” I correct.
“Sure.”
We watch Bron reset the obstacle markers for another run.
Zack tilts his head.
“You two are climbing the rankings fast.”
“We’re surviving.”
“That too.”
Bron steps onto the starting platform again, waiting for the trainer’s signal.
Zack studies him for a moment.
“He wasn’t like that earlier in the season.”
“No,” I say quietly. “He wasn’t.”
“What changed?”
I do not answer.
Because the obvious answer is complicated.
And embarrassing.
And currently sitting in my memory wearing last night’s mistakes.
Zack glances sideways at me.
“Uh-huh,” he says softly.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He chuckles and pushes off the railing.
“Well, whatever’s going on, it seems to be working.”
Working.
That’s one word for it.
Bron finishes the drill and jogs over toward the hydration station. His eyes flick upward toward the balcony and catch mine almost immediately.
Of course they do.
For a moment we just look at each other across the distance.
Then he raises an eyebrow.
I look away first.
The next challenge briefing arrives just after midday.
The arena projection expands across the central staging area as Captain Photonic’s voice booms from the overhead speakers with the theatrical enthusiasm of a man who believes danger is most entertaining when narrated loudly.
“Contestants,” he declares, “today’s endurance trial will test your balance, coordination, and trust!”
The holographic map flickers into focus.
A sprawling maze of suspended platforms appears above a simulated canyon. Narrow walkways twist through the structure like tangled vines. Entire sections collapse and reset in timed intervals.
Below it all is empty space.
Or, more accurately, a very long drop cushioned by safety fields that will eject contestants from the competition if they fall.
“Of course,” I mutter.
Bron leans closer to study the projection.
“That looks friendly.”
“It’s an endurance trap,” I say.
“How so?”
“Rotating segments. Timed collapses. If we rush, we fall.”
He nods slowly.
“So we don’t rush.”
I glance at him.
“You’re agreeing with me.”
“I do that sometimes.”
“Rarely.”
“Today might be special.”
The starting horn sounds.
Contestants surge onto the first section of platforms.
Immediately the structure begins shifting.
Metal plates slide sideways. Support beams retract. Entire walkways tilt at dangerous angles while dozens of contestants scramble to maintain their footing.
“Slow,” I say.
Bron moves carefully beside me.
The first collapse happens twenty meters ahead as one of the platforms gives way beneath a pair of contestants who misjudge the timing. Their startled shouts echo across the canyon as safety fields catch them and eject them from the course.
“Okay,” Bron mutters. “That’s motivating.”
“Third platform rotation,” I say, watching the pattern.
“What?”
“Wait for the third.”
The plates shift again.
Once.
Twice.
“Now.”
We move.
Bron follows directly behind me as we cross the unstable bridge just before it retracts entirely.
Behind us another couple tries the same move too late and drops through the gap.
The course grows more dangerous the farther we advance.
Wind turbines spin along the narrow corridors, blasting bursts of air strong enough to throw contestants off balance. Sections of flooring tilt unpredictably beneath our boots.
But Bron stays with me.
No reckless leaps.
No improvisational heroics.
When I tell him to stop, he stops.
When I say move, he moves.
At one point a collapsing walkway forces us onto a narrow maintenance beam barely wider than my foot.
Bron glances down.
“That’s… a long way down.”
“Don’t look down.”
“I already did.”
“Then stop doing it.”
He exhales slowly.
“Bossy.”
“Alive.”
“Fair.”
Halfway through the maze the number of remaining couples has dropped sharply.
Several competitors panic when the platform rotations accelerate, sprinting ahead in desperate attempts to beat the collapses. Most of them fail spectacularly.
The sound of falling bodies and safety fields activating echoes across the structure.
Bron watches one particularly dramatic elimination and whistles.
“This course is brutal.”
“Yes.”
“Remind me never to anger whoever designs these.”
“Just keep moving.”
We reach the final segment of the maze just as the sun begins dipping lower over the stadium rim. The long shadows cast by the upper platforms make the remaining path harder to read.
I study the timing carefully.
“Wait.”
Bron stops immediately.
A section of walkway collapses ahead.
Another rotates sideways.
Then the final bridge locks into place.
“Go.”
We sprint across together.
The finish platform looms ahead.
Behind us the last few couples scramble desperately through the collapsing maze.
Bron reaches the platform first and turns to offer me a hand across the final gap.
I take it.
The contact is brief but steady.
We step onto the finish marker together.
The horn blasts.
The scoreboard flickers to life above the arena.
Our names appear near the top.
Advancing again.
The crowd roars.
Bron exhales and shakes his head slightly.
“Well,” he says.
“That worked.”
“Yes,” I reply.
He studies me for a moment.
“You trusted me.”
“I trusted the plan.”
“Still counts.”
Maybe it does.
As we step off the platform and the remaining contestants struggle through the last collapsing sections behind us, I feel a strange shift in the space between us.
Trust.
Not the reckless kind we once had.
Something quieter.
Stronger.
And far more dangerous than I want it to be.