“We cannot do that again.”
“That sounded less like a suggestion and more like a policy memo.”
“It’s a policy memo.”
I sigh and swing my legs off the side of the bed.
“Right,” I mutter. “Good talk.”
For a moment the room settles into an awkward silence filled with the faint clatter of contestants starting their morning routines in nearby quarters. The smell of coffee drifts toward me, sharp and bitter in the quiet space.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling faintly.
“Still,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “nice to confirm the chemistry’s intact.”
Tilda stares at me like she’s debating whether throwing the coffee mug would technically count as assault.
Then my comm buzzes.
The vibration cuts through the room like a warning bell.
I glance down at the screen.
The sender ID makes my stomach drop immediately.
Mysk.
The message opens with the theatrical flair only a man obsessed with gangster movies would think appropriate.
Four days, Bronwyn.
The curtains close soon.
A photo loads beneath the text.
It’s a still frame from the broadcast feed of yesterday’s rally race, zoomed in tight enough that my face fills most of the image.
Another message follows immediately.
Win fast. Or I start collecting in other ways.
The air seems to thin around me.
I lock the screen before Tilda can see it and slide the comm onto the bedside table.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make lots of faces.”
“That one looked expensive.”
“Just a reminder message.”
“From who?”
