Chapter 22
brON
Sleep does not come easily after you discover you have a two-year-old son.
That realization sits in my chest like a weight with sharp edges, shifting every time I move, every time my mind drifts for even a second.
I spend most of the night staring at the dim ceiling of my quarters while the compound hums quietly around me.
Ventilation fans whisper through the walls.
Somewhere down the corridor a door opens and closes as another contestant returns from a late training session.
The place never truly rests, but tonight it feels quieter than usual, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Jesse.
The name echoes through my thoughts.
My son.
Two years old.
Two years of first steps and first words and scraped knees and bedtime stories I was never there to see.
I roll onto my side and stare at the dark window panel beside the bed. The glass reflects a faint ghost of my own face—tired, older than I remember it being, and carrying an expression I’m not entirely sure how to interpret.
“Well,” I mutter softly, “you really outdid yourself this time.”
Because the truth Tilda dropped into my life yesterday doesn’t just change the future.
It reframes the past.
Every reckless stunt. Every impulsive decision. Every moment I treated danger like it was just another stage prop in the grand performance of Bron Verak.
All of it looks different now.
Eventually I give up on sleep entirely.
The training hall is nearly empty this early.
Morning light spills through the upper observation windows, painting long pale stripes across the polished floor while the automated obstacle rigs cycle through quiet maintenance routines.
The air smells faintly of rubber mats, machine oil, and the bitter bite of cheap compound coffee someone left cooling on a nearby bench.
I sit alone at one of the analysis consoles with a tablet in my hands, scrolling through footage from the previous challenges.
This is new behavior for me.
The old version of Bron—the one Tilda remembers—would have spent this time doing push-ups, flirting with camera drones, or inventing unnecessary parkour routes across the training equipment just to see if anyone would stop him.
Instead I’m studying.
Watching.
Learning.
The video shows the canyon crossing from yesterday.
I pause the frame where Tilda signals me to wait for the wind gust to pass before stepping onto the cable line. In the background another team rushes forward too early and loses their footing almost immediately.
I rewind.
Play it again.
The difference between success and elimination wasn’t strength or speed.
It was patience.
“Look at you,” I murmur quietly. “Actually paying attention.”
I skip ahead to the puzzle-climb challenge from two days ago. The footage captures the moment Tilda explained the lock sequence while I followed instructions instead of trying to outsmart the mechanism.
That moment won us the round.
Which is an oddly humbling realization.
Footsteps approach behind me.
“You studying?” a voice asks.
I glance over my shoulder.
Zack stands there holding a protein bar and looking amused.
“Something like that,” I reply.
He leans against the console beside me.
“You know,” he says, “a week ago I watched you jump off a rotating platform because you thought the camera angle would look cool.”
“That was tactical.”
“That was idiotic.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He watches the footage for a moment.
“New strategy?”
“Something like that.”
Zack tilts his head.
“You’re taking this a lot more seriously lately.”
I shrug.
“People change.”
“Uh-huh.”
He unwraps the protein bar.
“Something happen?”
The question hangs there longer than I’d like.
I look back at the tablet screen.
“Let’s just say I’ve got a reason to start making better decisions.”
Zack studies me for a moment.
Then he nods once.
“Fair enough.”
The next challenge briefing arrives just before noon.
The remaining contestants gather in the arena staging chamber, the atmosphere noticeably tighter now that only eight couples remain in the competition. Conversations are quieter. Jokes are shorter. Everyone here understands that the margin for error has nearly vanished.
Captain Photonic stands at the center of the room with his usual theatrical enthusiasm.
“Contestants!” he booms. “Today’s trial will test precision, coordination, and teamwork!”
The holographic course expands above us.
A sprawling mechanical gauntlet appears—narrow balance beams, moving platforms, timed puzzle locks, and a series of pressure-triggered barriers that must be navigated in perfect synchronization.
Tilda steps closer to the projection beside me.
“Well,” she says softly. “That’s unpleasant.”
I study the rotating segments carefully.
“Looks like timing will matter more than speed.”
She glances sideways at me.
“You’re analyzing.”
“I’ve been known to.”
“That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The starting horn echoes through the chamber.
The arena floor smells like warm steel and ozone.
The obstacle course stretches ahead in a tangled maze of moving platforms and rotating gates. High above us the crowd roars with the restless anticipation of spectators who know the remaining teams are good enough to make every challenge interesting.
Tilda steps onto the first platform beside me.
“Same system as before,” she says quietly. “I call the sequence, you handle the physical work.”
“Works for me.”
She studies the shifting platforms ahead.
“Wait for the second rotation.”
I nod.
The metal beams slide sideways with a grinding roar.
Once.
Twice.
“Now.”
We move.
I jump across the first gap while Tilda lands lightly beside me a second later. The platform beneath us tilts slightly as the mechanism resets.
“Puzzle lock ahead,” she says.
“I see it.”
Three pressure plates sit in a triangular formation on the next platform.
“Left and center together,” she says.
I step onto them simultaneously.
The gate ahead clicks open.
We continue moving.
The difference between this run and the early days of the competition is subtle but undeniable. Instead of rushing ahead and forcing Tilda to adapt to whatever chaotic stunt I attempt next, I follow her pace.
When she says stop, I stop.
When she says move, I move.
The rhythm feels… efficient.
Halfway through the course we reach a narrow suspension bridge that sways dangerously under the arena wind generators.
“Slow,” she says.
“Got it.”
I step carefully onto the bridge, gripping the support cables while the structure shifts beneath my weight.
“You’re doing great,” she mutters.
“Please don’t start coaching like I’m a nervous horse.”
“You’re behaving like one.”
“Rude.”
But I keep moving exactly the way she told me.
Behind us another couple attempts to sprint across the bridge.
The cable whips sideways under their combined momentum.
They drop into the safety net below.
Elimination alarm.
I glance back once.
Then forward again.
“Focus,” Tilda says.
“Yes ma’am.”
The final section of the course requires both of us to cross a series of pressure plates simultaneously while a rotating barrier sweeps through the corridor.
“Three steps,” she says quietly.
“Then jump.”
“Got it.”
“One.”
We move.
“Two.”
The barrier roars past behind us.
“Three.”
We jump.
The finish platform appears ahead.
We land together just as the horn sounds.
The scoreboard lights up above the arena.
Safe ranking.
The crowd cheers.
I exhale slowly and lean forward with my hands on my knees.
“Well,” I say breathlessly. “That worked.”
Tilda looks at me with an expression that’s half curiosity, half cautious approval.
“You followed every instruction.”
“Turns out you’re good at strategy.”
“I always have been.”
“Guess I’m finally catching on.”
We walk toward the exit tunnel while the remaining teams attempt the final sequence behind us.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Then she says quietly, “You’re different lately.”
I shrug.
“Maybe I’m finally growing up.”
“That would be convenient.”
“It would.”
The tunnel lights flicker overhead as we enter the compound corridor.
I pause for a moment, watching the arena replay screens showing highlights from the challenge.
One clip shows us crossing the suspension bridge together—steady, coordinated, calm.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just effective.
I think about Jesse again.
About the life he’s been living for two years without knowing I exist.
And about the man he might eventually meet when he’s old enough to ask questions.
The reckless performer.
The adrenaline addict.
The guy who treated danger like a punchline.
Or someone better.
I turn away from the screen.
“Well,” I say quietly to myself, “guess we’ve got some work to do.”