Chapter 33
TILDA
The world has a sound when it starts to come apart.
It isn’t just the roar of the proto-beast tearing through steel and concrete like it’s ripping open a tin can, or the panicked screams of contestants scattering across the arena.
It’s deeper than that. A layered, grinding cacophony of failing systems, shearing metal, and the low, ominous groan of infrastructure pushed far beyond its limits.
It sounds like something breaking that was never meant to break.
“THIS WAY!” I shout, my voice raw already as I wave a cluster of contestants toward the emergency access corridor carved into the arena’s far perimeter. “Don’t stop—keep moving!”
They hesitate, eyes wide, still caught between disbelief and adrenaline.
Behind us, the proto-beast roars again.
The sound slams into my back like a physical blow.
That does it.
They run.
Boots pound against the uneven terrain as they scramble toward the exit, tripping over debris, shoving past one another in that desperate, animal rush for safety.
“Go, go, go!” I yell, grabbing one woman by the arm and physically turning her toward the corridor. “Don’t look back!”
She stumbles forward and disappears into the dimly lit tunnel along with the others.
For half a second, I let myself breathe.
Then the ground shakes again.
Harder this time.
A deep, bone-jarring tremor that travels up through my legs and into my spine.
I turn.
The arena is coming apart.
The proto-beast barrels through a support structure near the central platform, its massive shoulder slamming into reinforced steel like it’s made of brittle glass. The tower buckles with a sickening groan before collapsing in a cascading avalanche of metal and dust.
The air fills with the acrid scent of burning circuitry and pulverized concrete.
“Jesus—” someone gasps nearby.
“Move!” I snap, grabbing another contestant who’s frozen in place. “If you can still stand, you can still run!”
They blink at me, dazed.
“Now!”
That word seems to punch through whatever paralysis has taken hold.
They sprint.
Good.
I pivot, scanning the chaos for anyone else within reach.
There.
Two more contestants crouched behind a collapsed barrier, shielding their heads like that’s going to do anything against a creature the size of a building.
“Hey!” I shout, sprinting toward them. “You’re not safe there!”
One of them looks up, eyes glassy with shock.
“It’s part of the show, right?” he says weakly.
I skid to a stop in front of him, grab the front of his shirt, and haul him upright.
“Does this look scripted to you?” I demand.
The ground trembles again, punctuating my point.
His expression shifts from confusion to horror.
“Exit tunnel,” I say, pointing. “Go. Don’t stop for anything.”
They go.
Good.
One step at a time.
One group at a time.
That’s how you handle chaos.
You don’t try to fix everything.
You just keep moving the line forward.
Behind me, something explodes.
I whip around just in time to see a massive section of the arena wall shear away under the force of the proto-beast’s tail. The impact sends shards of metal and debris spiraling through the air like shrapnel.
“Down!” someone screams.
I duck instinctively as a chunk of twisted steel whistles overhead and slams into the ground with a thunderous crack.
Dust surges into the air, choking and thick.
I cough, blinking hard as grit stings my eyes.
Through the haze, I catch glimpses of movement.
Contestants running.
Security personnel shouting into comms that don’t seem to be working.
Camera drones still hovering, still recording, their lenses tracking every second of this unfolding disaster like it’s just another episode.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“Of course you’re still filming,” I mutter.
Because why wouldn’t they be?
Disaster gets ratings.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and turn, searching.
“Bron!”
My voice vanishes into the noise.
I push forward anyway, weaving through debris and scattered equipment, scanning every moving figure for him.
Nothing.
A spike of panic lances through my chest.
No.
No, not now.
Focus.
Find people.
Move them out.
Find him.
The sequence loops in my head like a command structure I refuse to break.
A group of contestants appears ahead, clustered near a jammed gate.
“Why isn’t it opening?” one of them shouts, slamming a hand against the control panel.
“It’s locked!” another yells.
I sprint toward them.
“Move!” I bark, pushing past to the panel.
The interface flickers, glitching.
Of course it is.
I slam my palm against the manual override.
Nothing.
“Step back,” I say.
They hesitate.
“Now!”
They jump back just as I grab a loose piece of metal from the debris pile and jam it into the access seam.
I put my weight into it.
The mechanism groans.
“Come on,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Don’t do this to me right now.”
The panel sparks.
The lock disengages with a sharp, metallic click.
The gate slides open just enough.
“Go!” I shout.
They don’t need to be told twice.
They surge through the opening and vanish into the tunnel beyond.
I sag for half a second, breathing hard.
Then—
Another roar.
Closer.
I turn slowly.
The proto-beast has changed direction.
It’s no longer rampaging randomly.
It’s moving with intent.
Toward the outer sectors of the arena.
Toward—
My blood runs cold.
The compound.
The daycare sector sits just beyond that perimeter.
Reinforced, yes.
Secure, supposedly.
But I’ve just watched this creature tear through structures designed to withstand atmospheric pressure and kinetic bombardment.
Reinforced doesn’t mean anything if the system is compromised.
“Bron,” I whisper.
Where are you?
I spin, scanning the chaos again.
“Bron!” I shout.
No answer.
Just the thunder of the beast’s movement and the distant, panicked voices of contestants and staff.
I grab the nearest security officer by the shoulder as he runs past.
“Hey!” I snap. “Listen to me!”
He tries to shake me off.
“I don’t have time—”
“You need to secure the compound,” I cut in sharply. “The daycare sector.”
He freezes.
“What?”
“The creature is heading that direction,” I say, forcing the words out clearly despite the pounding of my heart. “If it breaches the perimeter—”
His face drains of color.
“Get every available unit there,” I continue. “Now.”
He hesitates for half a second.
Then he nods sharply.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
He taps his comm, barking orders as he runs.
Good.
Good.
I turn back toward the arena.
Find Bron.
Find Bron.
Find—
A familiar shape moves through the dust and chaos.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Golden scales catching the light.
Relief hits so hard it almost knocks me off my feet.
“Bron!”
He turns at the sound of my voice.
Our eyes lock across the wreckage.
For a moment, everything else fades.
Then the world crashes back in.
The beast roars again.
Closer.
Too close.
I run toward him.
He meets me halfway.
“You okay?” he demands, grabbing my arms.
“I’m fine,” I say breathlessly. “You?”
“Still alive.”
“Good.”
We both glance toward the outer edge of the arena.
The direction the proto-beast is heading.
His expression hardens.
“You see it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s moving toward the compound.”
“The daycare,” he says.
I nod.
“We need to—”
“Go,” he finishes.
There’s no hesitation.
No debate.
Just that same understanding that’s been building between us through every challenge, every fight, every moment that forced us to choose each other.
We move.
Together.
Not toward the finish line.
Not toward victory.
Toward the one thing that matters.
Our son.