“Promoter,” I say easily.
The lie comes out smoother than I’d like.
Tilda studies me for a second longer than is comfortable, then finally nods and returns to her coffee.
Good.
Because the last thing I need right now is explaining that a theatrical crime boss plans to murder me if I don’t win a reality show in the next few days.
Instead I stand and stretch slowly, feeling the tight pull of muscle fatigue along my shoulders.
“What’s today’s challenge?” I ask.
She taps her tablet and flicks the briefing screen open in the air between us.
The holographic projection expands into a rotating model of the arena.
I whistle.
“Well,” I say, “that looks unfriendly.”
The structure resembles a multi-level fortress built entirely out of moving obstacles and combat hazards. Rotating walls. Energy barriers. Narrow suspension bridges. Automated defense drones drifting through designated corridors.
A caption appears beneath the map.
TACTICAL ASSAULT COURSE
Tilda sighs.
“Of course it is.”
“What’s the plan, boss?”
She folds her arms and studies the layout.
“You clear the physical threats.”
“And you?”
“I navigate the hazard grid.”
“Meaning you tell me where not to die.”
“Yes.”
“Solid system.”
She glances at me.
“You’ll actually listen this time?”
I grin.
“Probably.”
The arena smells like steel,dust, and the faint electric sting of active energy fields.
Contestants gather at the starting platforms while the crowd roars above us from the stadium tiers. Bright lights burn overhead, turning every piece of metal into something harsh and reflective.
