Success is contagious in a place like this, and nothing energizes contestants quite like seeing their names climb higher on the ranking boards while the field quietly thins behind them. The morning air carries a strange mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline, like the entire complex is running on three hours of sleep and sheer stubbornness. From the balcony outside the training hall I can hear the distant hum of maintenance drones repairing yesterday’s arena damage and the low roar of spectators already gathering in the stadium tiers for whatever spectacle the producers have prepared next.
I stand near the edge of the training platform, tablet in hand, pretending to review the day’s obstacle schematics while my attention drifts repeatedly toward the far end of the room.
Bron is running drills.
That alone would not be unusual. Contestants train constantly between challenges, especially once the field shrinks and the margin for error disappears. What is unusual is how he is training.
Bron Verak has never been particularly fond of structure.
The man built half his reputation on improvisation and bad ideas delivered with confident timing. He is the sort of person who jumps first and then assumes gravity will sort itself out afterward. I learned that about him very early in our relationship, back when I still thought reckless charisma was charming rather than terrifying.
But the man across the room right now is doing something different.
He is listening.
One of the tactical trainers—a broad-shouldered woman with a shaved head and the patient demeanor of someone who has spent years yelling at soldiers—is explaining a timing exercise involving rotating platforms and staggered drone patrol patterns. Bron stands there with his arms crossed, nodding occasionally while she talks.
And when she finishes?
He asks a question.
A thoughtful question.
I lower the tablet slightly.
“What the hell,” I murmur under my breath.
He runs the drill exactly the way she describes it. No shortcuts. No dramatic leaps across moving obstacles. No attempt to show off.
Just precise movement.
Deliberate pacing.
He clears the course cleanly.
The trainer nods approvingly.
Bron thanks her.
Actually thanks her.
I stare at the scene like I’m watching someone swap out the laws of physics.
“You look confused.”
The voice comes from my right.
I glance over to see Zack leaning against the railing beside me with a bottle of water in one hand and a grin on his face.
“I am confused,” I say.
He follows my gaze toward the training floor.
“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Your partner.”
“My problem,” I correct.
“Sure.”
