Chapter 35
TILDA
The corridor to the compound feels impossibly long.
Every step echoes too loudly, my boots striking the reinforced flooring in sharp, frantic rhythm as I sprint through the emergency access tunnel.
The lighting flickers overhead, alternating between harsh white and dim amber as the system struggles to keep up with the chaos bleeding in from the arena.
Somewhere behind me, the proto-beast roars again, the sound distorted through layers of steel and distance but still powerful enough to claw straight into my spine.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself, breath tearing in and out of my lungs. “Come on, come on, come on—”
The tunnel curves.
The air shifts.
Less dust, more sterilized air—cleaner, cooler, but threaded now with the sharp bite of fear. Voices echo ahead. Shouts. Orders. The clipped urgency of security teams trying to impose structure on something that is rapidly unraveling.
I burst out of the corridor and into the compound perimeter.
It’s controlled chaos.
Security personnel flood the area, herding contestants, staff, and civilians toward evacuation points. Emergency lights strobe along the walls, painting everything in pulses of red and white. Somewhere a siren wails, high and relentless.
“Move to the transport lanes!” someone shouts.
“Stay together!”
“Keep the exits clear!”
I don’t slow down.
“Daycare!” I call out, grabbing the arm of a passing guard. “Where’s the daycare evac?”
He jerks his head toward the far wing.
“Sector C—hurry!”
I don’t waste another second.
I run.
My legs burn, lungs screaming, but I don’t feel any of it properly. Adrenaline has turned everything into a narrow tunnel of focus, stripping away anything that doesn’t serve the single, desperate goal driving me forward.
Jesse.
The word beats in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Jesse.
The corridor to the daycare wing is packed.
Parents, contestants, staff—everyone moving in tight, frantic clusters, voices overlapping in a rising tide of fear.
“My daughter—where is she?”
“They said they’re bringing them out—”
“Stay calm, please—”
I push through.
“Excuse me—move—please—”
A hand grabs my arm.
“Tilda!”
I turn.
Fenn.
He stands near the entrance to the daycare sector, his usually unshakable expression cracked open by something I’ve never seen on him before.
Fear.
“Jesse—” I start.
“He’s inside,” Fenn says quickly. “They’re evacuating in groups.”
Relief hits so hard my knees nearly give out.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
“You took your time,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. “There was a—”
The ground trembles again.
Even here, inside reinforced walls, the impact carries through.
Fenn’s gaze flicks toward the ceiling.
“That thing still out there?”
“Yeah.”
His jaw tightens.
“Figures.”
The daycare doors slide open.
A stream of children and caretakers begins to emerge, guided by security personnel toward waiting transport vehicles.
I scan the faces desperately.
Not him.
Not him.
“Jesse!” I call, voice cracking.
A caretaker turns.
“There!” she says, pointing behind her.
And then I see him.
Small.
Too small in the middle of all this chaos.
Golden eyes wide, red-gold scales catching the harsh emergency lighting as he clutches his fossil-shaped rock in one hand like it’s the only stable thing left in the universe.
“Mama!”
The word cuts through everything.
I move.
I don’t remember crossing the distance.
One second he’s across the room.
The next he’s in my arms.
I scoop him up so fast I nearly knock the caretaker over.
“Hey—hey—” I breathe, pressing my face into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm skin, faint mineral traces, the soft sweetness of childhood that no amount of chaos can erase. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He wraps his arms around my neck.
“Took long,” he says solemnly.
A hysterical laugh escapes me.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Loud,” he adds, glancing toward the distant rumble.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Very loud.”
He studies my face with that unnervingly perceptive little frown.
“Mama scared?”
The question lands like a knife.
I tighten my hold on him.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “But I’m here.”
He nods, apparently satisfied with that answer.
“Okay.”
Fenn steps closer.
“You need to move,” he says. “Transports are loading now.”
“I know.”
But I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because something is pulling at me.
A thread of instinct I can’t ignore.
I turn toward the open wall of reinforced glass that overlooks the arena.
From here, elevated above the chaos, the view is clearer.
And what I see makes my heart stop.
Bron.
He’s still out there.
A small figure against the massive scale of the arena, dwarfed by the creature he’s facing.
The proto-beast looms over him, its enormous body thrashing through debris and broken terrain as it tries to track him.
And he’s not running away.
He’s keeping its attention.
“Of course you are,” I whisper, throat tightening.
“Who’s that?” Fenn asks, following my gaze.
“My idiot,” I say softly.
The words are automatic.
Familiar.
But there’s something else beneath them now.
Something deeper.
Fenn grunts.
“He’s going to get himself killed.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You planning on going back out there?”
“No,” I say immediately.
Because I can’t.
Because I won’t leave Jesse.
But that doesn’t mean I can just stand here and watch.
The arena shakes again.
The beast lunges.
Bron dodges—barely—rolling under its snapping jaws as they slam into the ground with bone-rattling force.
My breath catches.
“Bron—”
“Stay here,” Fenn says firmly. “You’ve got your kid. That’s the priority.”
“I know.”
“I mean it, Tilda.”
“I know!”
My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
I force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Think.
Security forces flood the arena now, armored units moving in coordinated lines, heavy weaponry tracking the creature’s movements.
“Finally,” I mutter.
The proto-beast roars again, thrashing as it turns toward the incoming threat.
Energy weapons fire.
Bright streaks of light slam into its armored hide.
It recoils—just slightly.
Not enough.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on, bring it down.”
Bron is still moving.
Still drawing it away.
Still buying time.
The cameras are still there too.
Hovering.
Recording.
Capturing every second.
“Unbelievable,” I breathe.
“This is still broadcasting?”
“Looks like it,” Fenn says grimly.
On one of the large external screens, the live feed flickers into view.
Bron’s face appears—sweat-soaked, eyes blazing, every movement sharp with focus and intent.
The commentators are back.
Louder now.
More frantic.
“This is no longer a controlled event!” Rick’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Security teams are engaging the creature—contestants are being evacuated—”
“And look at Bron Varek!” Lenny shouts. “He’s still out there! He’s keeping that thing busy!”
I clutch Jesse tighter.
“He’s not doing it for them,” I whisper.
Jesse tilts his head.
“For who?”
“For us,” I say softly.
For you.
For me.
For everyone.
The realization settles deep in my chest.
This isn’t performance.
This isn’t reckless bravado.
This is choice.
The proto-beast roars again as another volley of energy blasts slams into its flank.
It staggers.
Just a little.
More units move in, surrounding it, coordinating their fire.
“Stay down,” I murmur. “Stay down—”
The creature thrashes violently, tail lashing, jaws snapping.
Then—
Something shifts.
A coordinated strike.
Multiple blasts hitting the same point along its side.
The beast lets out a deafening roar—
And collapses.
The ground shakes with the impact.
Dust billows upward in a massive cloud.
For a moment, everything goes still.
Then the roar fades.
The movement stops.
Silence spreads outward in a slow, disbelieving wave.
“They got it,” Fenn says.
I stare.
Waiting.
Watching.
The creature doesn’t move.
Security teams advance cautiously, weapons still trained.
“It’s down,” someone confirms over the comms.
Relief crashes through me so hard it almost hurts.
My knees go weak.
I tighten my hold on Jesse.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s over.”
But my eyes are still searching.
Still scanning.
Because there’s one more thing I need to see.
Bron.
Through the settling dust, I spot him.
Standing.
Alive.
My breath leaves me in a shaky rush.
“There you are,” I whisper.
The cameras catch him again.
Capture the moment.
The man who didn’t run.
Who didn’t quit.
Who stood between chaos and everyone else and chose to fight anyway.
The entire galaxy is watching.
And for once—
They’re seeing him exactly as he is.