Chapter 20
brON
Pain has a smell.
Not the dramatic kind people write poetry about, but the real thing—the sharp metallic tang of sweat soaked into clothing after hours of strain, the stale breath of exhaustion, the faint electric scent of overheated arena equipment humming in the background.
When the endurance challenge finally ends and the stadium lights dim to something less blinding, my entire body feels like it has been hollowed out and replaced with sand.
Every muscle complains when I move, and the inside of my throat tastes like dust and adrenaline.
Tilda walks beside me down the service corridor that leads away from the arena floor.
The roar of the crowd fades behind us, replaced by the steady mechanical hum of ventilation fans and maintenance drones already beginning their nightly repairs.
The overhead lights here are softer than the stadium glare, but they still feel too bright for the headache pounding at the base of my skull.
Neither of us says anything at first.
That silence isn’t comfortable. It’s the kind of silence that exists when two people know a conversation has been postponed for far too long and the weight of it is finally too heavy to ignore.
I slow my pace slightly.
“Tilda.”
She doesn’t stop walking.
“We’re not doing this tonight,” she says without looking at me.
“Actually,” I reply quietly, “we are.”
She exhales through her nose, the way she always does when she’s deciding whether arguing with me is worth the energy. For a moment I think she might keep walking and leave the conversation hanging again, but then she stops halfway down the corridor and turns toward me.
Her expression is tired.
Not just physically tired.
Emotionally worn down in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
“What do you want, Bron?”
I take a breath.
The air smells faintly of cleaning solvent and warm circuitry.
“I want the truth.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“You already asked that question.”
“And you didn’t answer it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No,” I say calmly. “You avoided it.”
The corridor stretches empty in both directions. Somewhere far away a door closes with a soft mechanical click.
Tilda folds her arms.
“We just finished a twelve-hour endurance challenge.”
“And somehow I still have enough energy to ask the same question again.”
“Bron.”
“Is Jesse my son?”
The words land between us with the force of a dropped weight.
For a long moment she doesn’t move.
Her eyes drift past me toward the far end of the corridor like she’s considering the possibility of simply walking away again.
I step forward slightly.
“Tilda.”
She closes her eyes.
The silence that follows feels enormous.
Then she says very quietly, “Yes.”
The word barely makes a sound.
But it still hits me like a freight train.
For several seconds I just stand there staring at her while my brain tries to reorganize itself around the fact that the suspicion that has been gnawing at me for days is no longer a suspicion.
It’s real.
Jesse.
The kid with the golden eyes and the red scales and the unsettling habit of studying people like he’s quietly deciding whether they’re trustworthy.
My son.
I laugh once.
Not because anything is funny.
More because my brain doesn’t know what else to do with the sudden pressure in my chest.
“Well,” I say slowly. “That’s… direct.”
Tilda doesn’t look relieved.
If anything she looks like she’s bracing for impact.
“I wasn’t planning to tell you here,” she says quietly.
“Where were you planning to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
That answer lands harder than the first one.
“Right,” I say softly.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The corridor lights buzz faintly overhead.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the floor while my thoughts scramble to catch up with reality.
“You left,” I say finally.
“Yes.”
“You disappeared without a word.”
“Yes.”
“And the reason was…”
She meets my eyes.
“You.”
The word is simple.
Brutally simple.
I blink.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “That’s not exactly the explanation I was hoping for.”
“You asked for the truth.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Apparently I did.”
She looks exhausted.
More exhausted than I’ve ever seen her.
“I found out I was pregnant two weeks after I left,” she says quietly.
The timeline clicks into place with uncomfortable precision.
“You could’ve told me.”
“I thought about it.”
“And?”
She hesitates.
The hesitation is enough to make my stomach tighten.
“And I realized something.”
“What?”
“That you weren’t ready.”
The words are gentle.
But they still cut.
“I wasn’t ready,” I repeat slowly.
“No.”
“You decided that on your own.”
“Yes.”
I laugh again, softer this time.
“That’s impressive efficiency.”
“Bron—”
“You made a decision about my life without even asking me.”
“I made a decision about my child.”
Our eyes lock.
For a moment the hallway feels smaller.
“You think I would’ve walked away,” I say quietly.
“No.”
The answer surprises me.
“Then what?”
She takes a slow breath.
“I think you would’ve tried.”
“Tried?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s bad?”
“You were reckless,” she says.
The word lands with a dull thud in my chest.
“You lived like consequences were optional.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I open my mouth to argue.
Then close it again.
Because the worst part about criticism is when the person delivering it isn’t wrong.
“You jumped into danger for fun,” she continues. “You made impulsive decisions constantly. Half the time I felt like I was dating a man who thought gravity was a suggestion.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was the man I knew.”
The quiet certainty in her voice strips away the last of my defensiveness.
I lean back against the wall and stare at the ceiling.
“So you decided I’d be a terrible father.”
“I decided Jesse deserved stability.”
“And I couldn’t give him that.”
“No.”
The honesty in that single word hits harder than any accusation could.
For a long time neither of us speaks.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
Somewhere down the corridor a ventilation fan kicks on with a low mechanical whine.
“You know the worst part?” I say eventually.
“What?”
“You’re not entirely wrong.”
Tilda doesn’t answer.
She just watches me carefully, like she’s trying to figure out what direction this conversation is about to take.
I rub my hands over my face.
“God,” I mutter. “I’ve got a kid.”
“Yes.”
“A whole human being.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been raising him alone for two years.”
“Yes.”
The weight of that realization settles slowly into my chest.
Two years.
First steps.
First words.
First everything.
And I wasn’t there.
Not because I chose to disappear.
Because I was never told.
But the anger I expected to feel doesn’t come.
Instead something quieter settles in its place.
Something heavier.
Understanding.
“You really thought I’d screw it up,” I say softly.
“I thought you’d try to be better,” she replies.
“That doesn’t sound terrible.”
“And then something dangerous would happen.”
The simplicity of that statement hits me square in the gut.
Because that part?
That part is absolutely true.
I spent years chasing adrenaline like it was oxygen.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That tracks.”
Tilda studies me.
“You’re not angry.”
“Oh,” I say with a faint smile, “I’m definitely angry.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
“Because yelling won’t change anything.”
The words surprise both of us.
I push myself off the wall and take a step back.
For the first time since the conversation started, I can’t quite meet her eyes.
“You were right about one thing,” I say.
“What?”
“I wasn’t ready.”
The admission tastes bitter.
But it’s also honest.
“I was reckless,” I continue. “Half the decisions I made back then were basically stunts with better lighting.”
Tilda’s expression softens slightly.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you deserved punishment,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“I did it because I thought Jesse deserved better.”
The sincerity in her voice hurts more than any lie could have.
I nod slowly.
“That makes sense.”
Silence stretches between us again.
Eventually she says my name.
“Bron.”
I shake my head gently.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Try to fix it.”
“I wasn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I say softly.
The word feels strange coming out of my mouth.
But it’s the closest thing to the truth I have right now.
I turn toward the end of the corridor.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
“Bron—”
I pause.
Then glance back over my shoulder.
“Take care of him,” I say quietly.
Her brow furrows.
“I already am.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I noticed.”
Then I start walking.
Because suddenly the walls of the compound feel too small to contain the realization that somewhere in this building there’s a two-year-old kid with my eyes who has spent his entire life not knowing who his father is.
And the man he might eventually meet?
That man has a lot of thinking to do about whether he deserves the title.