Chapter 36
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The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not complete silence—there’s still the distant whine of machinery, the crackle of comms, the low murmur of voices trying to find their footing again—but compared to the chaos that just tore through the arena, it feels like someone reached up and turned the volume of the universe down by half.
The proto-beast lies where it fell.
Still.
Massive.
Terrifying even in defeat.
Its chest rises once—slow, heavy—then settles as the containment teams lock down its limbs with reinforced binders and field dampeners that hum with a low, electric tension.
The smell of scorched energy weapons hangs thick in the air, sharp and metallic, mixed with dust and something more primal—something that reminds me, uncomfortably, of blood and heat and survival.
I stand there in the wreckage, chest heaving, hands hanging loose at my sides, trying to convince my body that it’s allowed to stop moving now.
“Hey!”
A voice cuts through the haze.
I turn.
Security.
Three of them, armored and alert, weapons still trained loosely in my direction like they’re not entirely convinced I’m not part of the problem.
Fair.
One of them lowers his rifle slightly as he approaches.
“You injured?” he asks.
“Define injured,” I say, my voice rough.
He gives me a look.
I glance down at myself.
Dust. Scrapes. A nice collection of bruises forming under the skin.
“Nothing critical,” I add.
He nods once.
“Stay where you are.”
“Not planning on running,” I mutter.
Another team rushes past us toward the far side of the arena, where a cluster of officials are gathered around a man on his knees.
Something about the posture.
The way the guards have him pinned.
My stomach tightens.
I start walking.
“Sir—” the security officer begins.
“I’m just looking,” I say, already moving.
He hesitates, then follows.
The closer I get, the clearer the picture becomes.
Black reptile leather coat.
Blood-red lining.
Rings flashing under the harsh arena lights.
Mysk.
“Well,” I murmur. “There you are.”
He looks up as I approach.
And smiles.
Actually smiles.
Like this is all part of some elaborate joke that only he understands.
“Bronwyn,” he says, voice smooth despite the armored knee pressing into his back. “You look terrible.”
“Funny,” I reply. “I was about to say the same thing.”
One of the officers tightens his grip on Mysk’s shoulder.
“Don’t speak,” he snaps.
Mysk ignores him.
“Quite the spectacle,” he says, glancing toward the subdued beast. “You always did have a flair for drama.”
I stop a few feet away.
“Did you really think this would work?” I ask quietly.
He tilts his head.
“Define ‘work.’”
“You nearly killed everyone in that arena.”
“Nearly,” he repeats, like the word amuses him. “And yet here you are. Alive. Remarkable.”
My hands curl into fists.
The officer notices.
“Easy,” he warns.
I don’t move closer.
But it’s a near thing.
“You sabotaged the containment,” I say.
“Allegedly.”
“Don’t.”
He smiles wider.
“The betting markets were… very interested in this outcome.”
“Outcome?” I snap. “This wasn’t an outcome. This was chaos.”
“Ah,” he says softly. “But chaos is profitable.”
The officer hauling him up doesn’t wait for further commentary.
“That’s enough,” he growls. “You’re done talking.”
Mysk’s gaze lingers on me as they drag him to his feet.
“For what it’s worth,” he says lightly, “you made an excellent centerpiece.”
I step forward.
The officer blocks me immediately.
“Sir.”
I stop.
Breathe.
Let it go.
Because hitting him doesn’t fix anything.
Doesn’t undo what just happened.
Doesn’t make Jesse safer.
Doesn’t make Tilda—
Tilda.
The thought hits like a jolt.
I turn sharply, scanning the arena.
Where is she?
Where—
“Evacuation’s underway,” the officer says, following my gaze. “Compound sectors are being cleared.”
“Daycare?” I ask.
“Priority evac.”
I nod once.
Good.
Good.
That’s what matters.
Mysk is dragged past me, still smiling like a man who doesn’t understand the concept of consequences.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe he just doesn’t care.
Either way—
He’s not my problem anymore.
The arena shifts around me as more personnel flood in, sealing off damaged sections, setting up containment barriers, ushering the last remaining contestants toward the exits.
The cameras are still here.
Of course they are.
Hovering overhead, recording everything.
The aftermath.
The wreckage.
The man who almost got everyone killed being hauled away in restraints.
I catch a glimpse of one of the large holo screens flickering back to life.
Captain Photonic appears, his usual theatrical composure cracked just enough to let something real show through.
“Citizens of the galaxy,” he says, voice steadier than I expect, “today’s final event has been… compromised.”
That’s one way to put it.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances and confirmed external interference, the Galactic Extreme Challenge finale is hereby declared—”
He pauses.
The word hangs in the air.
“No contest.”
The crowd reacts immediately.
A wave of noise rolling through the stadium—confusion, disappointment, disbelief.
“No contest?” I repeat under my breath.
All of this.
Everything we just went through.
And it ends like that.
No winner.
No prize.
Just… over.
A hollow feeling opens up in my chest.
Because I know what that means.
No prize money.
No payout.
No clean resolution.
And more than that—
No guarantee for Tilda.
The housing.
The promotion.
Everything she negotiated for.
I close my eyes for a second.
Damn it.
“Sir,” the security officer says, softer now. “We need to move you out of the arena.”
I nod absently.
“Yeah.”
I start walking toward the exit corridor, the weight of the situation settling heavier with every step.
The adrenaline is fading.
Leaving clarity behind.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
Tilda came here for stability.
For security.
For a future she could build for Jesse.
And I—
I brought chaos with me.
Again.
Even if it wasn’t my hand that pulled the trigger.
Even if I didn’t sabotage the containment.
It still traces back to me.
Mysk.
The debt.
The mess I made before any of this started.
I scrub a hand over my face.
“Idiot,” I mutter.
“Sir?” the officer asks.
“Not you.”
We reach the edge of the arena where medics are setting up triage stations. Injured contestants sit or lie on portable cots, some laughing shakily, others staring into space like they haven’t quite caught up with reality yet.
I step past them.
Keep moving.
Because I need to find her.
I need to—
“There he is!”
I look up.
One of the production assistants is pointing at me, talking rapidly into a comm.
“Get a camera on him—he’s the one who—”
I hold up a hand.
“No.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“No interviews,” I say flatly.
“But the audience—”
“Not now.”
I keep walking.
I don’t have the energy for performance.
Not anymore.
Not after that.
I push through the exit corridor into the compound perimeter.
The air here is cooler, cleaner, but it doesn’t feel any less heavy.
Emergency vehicles line the transport lanes.
People move in controlled lines now, the chaos gradually settling into something resembling order.
I scan the crowd.
And then—
There.
Tilda.
She stands near the evacuation zone, Jesse in her arms, Fenn beside her.
Relief hits me so hard it almost drops me to my knees.
They’re safe.
They’re okay.
I walk toward them, slower now.
Because there’s something else riding under the relief.
Something heavier.
Guilt.
Uncertainty.
Because I don’t know what happens next.
I don’t know what this disaster cost her.
Cost us.
I stop a few feet away.
She looks up.
Our eyes meet.
For a moment, everything else fades.
“Hey,” I say softly.
Her gaze searches my face.
“You’re alive.”
“Last I checked.”
She exhales.
A small, shaky sound.
Jesse peers at me from her arms.
“Big lizard,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Big lizard.”
He nods, like that explains everything.
I glance back at Tilda.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
The words come out rough.
“I know this wasn’t—”
“Stop,” she says.
I blink.
“What?”
“Stop apologizing.”
“But—”
“This wasn’t you.”
“It started with me.”
“No,” she says firmly. “It didn’t.”
I hesitate.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Her voice is steady.
Certain.
“You made mistakes,” she continues. “That’s not the same as this.”
I look at her.
Really look.
“You might have lost everything because of me,” I say quietly.
Her grip on Jesse tightens slightly.
“Or,” she says, “we might have gained something we didn’t expect.”
I frown.
“What does that mean?”
She glances toward one of the large external screens.
I follow her gaze.
The replay is already running.
Footage of the arena.
The chaos.
The creature.
And me.
Running toward it.
Drawing it away.
Buying time.
The commentators’ voices overlay the scene, breathless and awed.
“He’s not even trying to win anymore—he’s protecting them—”
“Look at that—he’s pulling the creature away from the evacuation zones—”
The footage cuts to another angle.
Me, standing in the dust, facing down something that should have crushed me.
I swallow.
“That’s… unfortunate.”
Tilda huffs a soft laugh.
“No,” she says. “That’s exactly what people needed to see.”
I shake my head.
“I didn’t do it for them.”
“I know.”
She shifts Jesse on her hip.
“But they don’t.”
I look back at the screen.
At the man I see there.
For once, he doesn’t look like a performer.
He looks like—
Something else.
Something I’m not entirely sure I recognize yet.
Tilda steps closer.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I nod slowly.
Because for the first time in a long time—
I believe her.