Chapter 32
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Something feels wrong.
Not in the usual way, either—not in the we are about to be chased by a building-sized predator and that is objectively a poor life choice kind of wrong. I’m familiar with that flavor of chaos. I thrive in it. It’s practically my brand.
This is different.
Quieter.
Colder.
It slips in under the noise of the crowd and the thunder of machinery, like a bad note in a song only I can hear.
“Tilda,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as we slow near the final stage threshold.
She doesn’t look at me, eyes locked on the terrain ahead, calculating angles and timing like she’s solving a particularly violent equation.
“Yeah?”
“Something’s off.”
“That narrows it down,” she says dryly.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She glances up at the containment wall running alongside us, her expression sharpening.
The barrier hums with energy, a deep vibrating thrum that you feel in your teeth more than hear with your ears. Behind it, the proto-beast paces, its massive form shifting in restless, agitated arcs. Each step it takes sends a faint tremor through the reinforced ground.
But it’s not just the creature.
It’s the guards.
I squint toward the elevated security platform near the containment controls.
“See that?” I ask.
Tilda follows my gaze.
“Yeah,” she says slowly.
“Why are there only two guards up there?”
“There were four during the briefing.”
“Exactly.”
One of the remaining guards is leaning over the control console, shouting into his comm. The other is scanning the arena like he’s trying to track something he can’t quite see.
That hum in the back of my skull gets louder.
Wrong.
“Tilda,” I say quietly, “we might have a problem.”
“We’re in a death arena,” she replies. “We have several problems.”
“No, I mean—”
A sharp crack of static cuts through the arena speakers.
The massive holo screens flicker.
The crowd’s roar stutters into confusion.
And then—
The containment field glitches.
It’s subtle at first.
A flicker.
A stutter in the shimmering energy barrier.
Then it drops.
Not completely.
But enough.
The proto-beast notices instantly.
Its head snaps toward the weakened section of the barrier.
“Oh,” I say softly. “That’s bad.”
“Bron—” Tilda starts.
The creature lunges.
The impact hits the barrier with a sound like a freight ship slamming into a cliff face.
The entire structure shudders.
Metal screams.
The weakened field flares—
Then collapses.
The beast explodes through it.
The sound is indescribable.
A roar that feels like it claws its way into your chest and squeezes your lungs, tearing the air apart with raw, furious power. The creature bursts into the arena in a storm of dust and shattered metal, its massive body coiling and uncoiling with terrifying speed.
The crowd loses its mind.
Screaming.
Cheering.
Confusion bleeding into panic.
“Oh my God,” Tilda breathes.
“That was not supposed to happen,” I say.
“You think?”
The beast’s tail whips across the nearest structure, tearing through a support column like it’s made of paper. The entire section of the arena collapses in a cascade of debris and dust.
Contestants scatter.
Vanna shouts something I can’t hear as she and Pajack sprint in the opposite direction. Zack grabs Dartha’s hand and pulls her toward higher ground.
The announcers are still talking.
They’re always talking.
“Unexpected development here, folks!” Lenny’s voice rings out, a little too excited for the situation.
Rick cuts in, sharper. “That containment breach was not part of the scheduled event—security needs to—”
The feed crackles again.
The beast roars louder.
It moves faster than something that size should.
Massive claws dig into the arena floor as it surges forward, snapping its jaws at the nearest moving target.
A contestant barely dives out of the way.
The creature slams into a barrier instead, obliterating it in a shower of twisted metal.
“Tilda,” I say, grabbing her arm. “We need to move.”
“I’m aware!”
“Not toward the finish.”
She looks at me like I’ve just lost my mind.
“What?”
“That thing’s loose.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“This isn’t a challenge anymore.”
Another roar shakes the ground.
The beast pivots, its massive head swinging toward a cluster of contestants who are trying to regroup near the central platform.
“They’re still running the course,” Tilda says, disbelief threading through her voice.
“They think it’s part of the show.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” I say grimly. “It’s not.”
Because I know exactly what this is.
Mysk.
That message.
The timing.
The betting syndicates.
He didn’t just want me to throw the final.
He wanted chaos.
“Bron,” Tilda says sharply, “talk to me.”
“I think someone sabotaged the containment.”
Her eyes widen.
“Who?”
I hesitate for half a second.
Then—
“Mysk.”
The name lands between us like a detonator.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
The beast charges again, its massive body tearing across the arena with terrifying speed. It slams into a cluster of obstacles, sending debris flying in all directions.
A support tower collapses.
The ground shakes violently.
“Tilda,” I say, gripping her shoulders. “This isn’t about winning anymore.”
Her breath comes fast, eyes flicking between the chaos unfolding around us.
“I know.”
“We need to get people out.”
Her gaze locks onto mine.
For a moment the noise of the arena fades.
There’s just us.
Decision.
Understanding.
“Okay,” she says.
No hesitation.
No argument.
Just that one word.
And somehow that hits harder than anything else.
“Okay?” I repeat.
“We help them,” she says firmly. “We get as many people out as we can.”
Gods, I love this woman.
The beast roars again, closer now.
A massive shadow sweeps across the ground as it turns toward another group of contestants.
“Move!” I shout.
We break into a sprint.
Not toward the finish line.
Toward the chaos.
A piece of debris crashes down in front of us.
I grab Tilda and yank her sideways just before it slams into the ground.
“You good?” I bark.
“I’m fine!”
“Stay behind me.”
“Not a chance.”
We reach a group of contestants frozen near a collapsed barrier.
“Hey!” I shout. “Stop standing there!”
One of them blinks at me.
“It’s part of the event, right?”
“No!” I snap. “That thing is not scripted!”
Another roar echoes across the arena.
The ground trembles again.
That gets their attention.
“Oh hell,” someone mutters.
“Exit tunnels are that way!” I point toward the far edge of the arena where emergency access corridors are partially visible between the terrain modules.
“Go!” Tilda adds. “Now!”
They don’t argue this time.
They run.
The cameras are still rolling.
I can see them hovering overhead, capturing everything.
Every second.
Every near miss.
Every terrified scramble.
The crowd noise has shifted now.
Less cheering.
More confusion.
More fear.
The beast crashes through another structure, sending a shockwave of dust and debris rippling outward.
“Tilda!” I shout.
She’s already moving, heading toward another cluster of contestants trapped near a collapsed platform.
“Hey!” she calls. “This way!”
I follow, shoving aside a piece of twisted metal blocking the path.
My muscles strain as I lift it just enough for two people to crawl under.
“Go!” I bark.
They scramble through.
Tilda grabs my arm as the ground shakes again.
“That thing’s getting closer.”
“I noticed.”
We turn.
The proto-beast looms across the arena, its massive body tearing through obstacles like they’re inconveniences rather than barriers. Its eyes—bright, predatory—lock onto movement.
Onto us.
“Well,” I say, breathless. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Bron—”
“Run.”
We move.
Fast.
Not toward the finish.
Not toward victory.
Toward survival.
Toward getting as many people out of this disaster as we can.
Because somewhere in the chaos of crashing steel and roaring crowds and failing containment systems, one thing becomes painfully, crystal clear.
This isn’t a game anymore.
And winning doesn’t matter.
Only getting out alive does.