Chapter 19
TILDA
The compound feels different when the numbers drop.
At the beginning of the competition the place was loud in a chaotic, carnival sort of way—too many contestants, too many egos, too many couples convinced they were about to dominate the entire show.
The corridors were packed with people arguing, flirting, bragging, panicking, and generally behaving like a herd of caffeinated animals trapped in a televised experiment.
Now it’s quieter.
Not silent, but sharper.
The kind of quiet that happens when the field shrinks and every remaining contestant suddenly realizes the odds are getting serious.
Only twelve couples remain.
Twenty-four people.
Out of the hundreds who started.
The giant ranking board in the central hall glows above us like a scoreboard in a war zone. Names scroll slowly across the display, highlighting the remaining teams in bright gold while eliminated competitors fade into dim gray text beneath them.
I stand in front of it with my arms folded, studying the updated standings.
Third place.
Bron and I are in third.
The number sits there on the board like a challenge.
“Don’t stare at it too hard,” Bron says behind me. “You’ll scare it away.”
I don’t turn around.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s usually when things get dangerous.”
“Only for people who ignore strategy.”
“Wow,” he says. “That felt personal.”
I finally glance over my shoulder.
He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking annoyingly relaxed for someone who just spent an hour climbing a vertical obstacle tower during training drills.
“You’ve been watching the rankings all morning,” he says.
“I’m analyzing the field.”
“You’re obsessing.”
“I’m preparing.”
He shrugs.
“Same difference.”
I turn back toward the board.
The names shift again as new statistics load beneath them.
Team performance ratings.
Audience approval metrics.
Challenge success rates.
We’re near the top in almost every category.
Which should feel reassuring.
Instead it feels like standing closer to the edge of a cliff.
“Top twelve,” Bron murmurs beside me.
“Yes.”
“Getting real.”
“It’s been real the entire time.”
“Sure,” he says lightly. “But now it’s dramatic.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“You are incapable of taking anything seriously for more than thirty seconds.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “I take tacos very seriously.”
I sigh.
Then I realize something strange.
Bron isn’t pacing.
He isn’t bouncing on the balls of his feet like he usually does before a challenge.
He’s just standing there.
Calm.
Watching the board.
“You’re being suspiciously reasonable today,” I say.
“That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.”
He glances sideways at me.
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Into what?”
“A responsible adult.”
I snort.
“That would require evidence.”
“Well,” he says, pushing off the wall, “lucky for you there’s a challenge coming up where I can demonstrate my growth.”
The arena briefing chamber is packed with tension.
With only twelve couples left, every challenge carries real consequences. One mistake now can drop a team several places down the rankings, and at this stage that kind of slip can mean elimination within days.
Captain Photonic stands on the central platform like a man about to announce the start of a gladiatorial festival.
“Contestants!” he booms. “Today’s trial will test your trust, coordination, and problem-solving under pressure!”
The holographic course appears above us.
A towering climbing structure unfolds in midair—multiple vertical walls connected by suspended platforms and rotating puzzle stations. Teams must ascend the structure while solving mechanical locks that open the next climbing route.
Bron whistles.
“That’s… complicated.”
“It’s synchronized climbing,” I say quietly, already studying the pattern of puzzle nodes.
“You sound excited.”
“I’m calculating.”
He leans closer to the projection.
“So we climb.”
“And solve.”
“And don’t fall.”
“Yes.”
“That seems manageable.”
I glance at him.
“You’ll have to follow instructions.”
He places a hand over his heart.
“I am deeply offended you think otherwise.”
The arena smells like heated metal and dust.
The climbing structure rises above us like a mechanical jungle gym designed by someone with a grudge against contestants’ shoulder joints. Steel handholds glint under the stadium lights while rotating puzzle locks click quietly along the vertical pathways.
The horn sounds.
Teams surge forward.
Bron and I reach the first wall quickly, and I grab the lowest handhold while he moves to the opposite side of the structure.
“Left route,” I call.
“Got it.”
We start climbing.
The metal rungs are warm beneath my palms from the stadium lights, and the faint vibration of the machinery hums through the structure as the puzzle stations rotate into position.
Halfway up the first wall, Bron pauses.
“Puzzle node,” he says.
“I see it.”
The mechanism sits between us—three rotating rings etched with alien symbols.
“Outer ring clockwise,” I say.
He turns it.
The lock clicks.
“Middle ring counter.”
“Done.”
The final ring shifts into place with a heavy metallic clank.
A panel above us slides open, revealing the next climbing route.
“That was easy,” Bron says.
“Don’t jinx it.”
We climb higher.
Below us the arena floor begins to look very far away.
Wind from the stadium ventilation system rushes past the structure, tugging at my clothes as I reach for the next handhold.
Bron moves beside me with careful precision.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
Just steady.
“You’re being weirdly cautious,” I say.
“I’m listening to you.”
“That’s unusual.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Another puzzle node appears above us.
Bron stops immediately.
“What’s the pattern?”
I examine the symbols.
“They match the base lock sequence. Reverse order.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He follows the instructions without hesitation.
The lock releases.
Another panel slides open.
We continue climbing.
Several teams below us struggle with the puzzles, losing precious minutes while the structure rotates and closes alternate routes.
One couple falls when a misaligned puzzle lock seals their platform.
The crowd gasps as the safety fields activate.
Bron glances down briefly.
“That’s a long way.”
“Focus.”
“Yes ma’am.”
We reach the final ascent just as the top four teams converge on the last puzzle gate.
The mechanism here is larger.
More complicated.
Five rings instead of three.
“Okay,” Bron says quietly. “Strategy time.”
I study the pattern.
My brain starts mapping possibilities.
“Outer two rings clockwise,” I say slowly.
He moves them.
The symbols align halfway.
“Middle ring counter.”
Click.
The gate shudders.
“Inner rings—both left.”
He twists them simultaneously.
For a moment nothing happens.
Then the lock releases with a deep mechanical thud.
The final climbing panel slides open.
Bron grins.
“Nice.”
We scramble up the last section together.
The finish platform sits just above us.
Bron reaches it first and swings himself over the edge.
Then he leans down and extends a hand.
“Come on.”
I take it.
His grip is firm, steady.
He pulls me up onto the platform.
The horn blasts.
The scoreboard lights up.
First place.
The crowd erupts.
Bron laughs.
“Well,” he says breathlessly. “That worked.”
I look down at the climbing structure stretching beneath us.
Then I look at him.
“You followed every instruction.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t improvise once.”
“I noticed.”
I study him carefully.
“You’re changing.”
He tilts his head.
“Is that a compliment?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
We step off the platform while the remaining teams struggle with the final puzzle lock below.
The announcers are already shouting our names over the stadium speakers.
Third place becomes second on the ranking board.
The number glows brighter now.
As we walk back toward the exit tunnel, I catch myself watching Bron again.
The way he moves through the arena.
The way he actually listens when I explain strategy.
The way he’s been deliberately holding back his usual reckless instincts during every challenge.
For a long time I convinced myself that Bron Verak would never change.
That chaos was simply part of his DNA.
That trusting him was the kind of mistake intelligent people learned not to repeat.
But as the arena noise fades behind us and the updated rankings flash across the stadium screens, a quiet question begins forming in the back of my mind.
Maybe I was wrong.
And the possibility that Bron might actually be capable of growing into someone dependable is far more unsettling than the idea that he never would.