As we step off the platform and the remaining contestants struggle through the last collapsing sections behind us, I feel a strange shift in the space between us.
Trust.
Not the reckless kind we once had.
Something quieter.
Stronger.
And far more dangerous than I want it to be.
CHAPTER 18
BRON
There are moments in life when a suspicion becomes too large to ignore, the kind of thought that settles into the back of your skull and refuses to move out no matter how many logical arguments you throw at it. For the last two days I have been trying—honestly trying—to behave like a rational adult about the possibility forming in my mind, but the trouble with rationality is that it tends to collapse the moment reality keeps feeding it new evidence. Every time I close my eyes I see that kid again: the quiet way he studies people, the burnished red scales that catch the light along his cheekbones, the particular shade of gold in his eyes that my grandmother once described as “Vakutan sunlight.” The arithmetic of the timeline still runs constantly in the background of my thoughts, ticking along like a clock that has decided it will eventually drag the truth into the open whether anyone is ready for it or not.
Which is exactly why I find myself standing near the far wall of the family visitation commons again, pretending to study a decorative fountain while my attention remains fixed on the courtyard beyond the glass.
The family wing always smells different from the rest of the compound. There’s less of the harsh metallic tang of arenamachinery and more of the soft domestic scents people associate with ordinary life—powdered milk, fabric softener, fresh fruit packs, the faint sweetness of bubble solution drifting from a toy dispenser near the play area. The contrast is so stark it almost feels unreal, like someone carved a pocket of normalcy out of the middle of a gladiator arena.
Children move through the courtyard in uneven bursts of energy. Some are toddling after floating toy drones while others are building elaborate block towers destined to collapse within seconds. A caretaker sits nearby reading from a bright picture book while two toddlers attempt to chew on the corners of the pages.
And in the middle of all that small, chaotic life is Jesse.
He stands near a low climbing structure with his hands braced against the metal railing, examining a small mechanical toy with the intense concentration of a scientist evaluating a failed experiment. From where I’m standing I can see the faint shimmer of red scales along the back of his neck and the smooth curve of his jawline as he tilts his head slightly. The afternoon light from the courtyard canopy glints off those scales in a way that makes them look almost copper-colored.
My stomach tightens again.
The resemblance isn’t subtle.
Not to someone who grew up around a family full of Vakutans.
The shape of the cheekbones alone is enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Yeah,” I murmur quietly to myself. “That’s not suspicious at all.”
I shift slightly against the wall and fold my arms loosely across my chest, trying to look like a bored contestant killing time during a break period instead of a man staring at a toddlerlike he might contain the answer to a question that could change the rest of my life.
Jesse drops the toy onto the ground and crouches to inspect it more closely. The movement is quick and deliberate, the kind of compact balance Vakutan children develop early thanks to their heavier bone density. My youngest cousin used to move exactly like that when we were kids.
The memory hits me so suddenly I nearly laugh out loud.
“Oh, this is getting ridiculous,” I whisper.
The child glances toward the courtyard entrance then, as if sensing someone watching him. His golden eyes sweep across the room and land on me.
For a moment we just look at each other.
There’s something unnervingly steady about the way he holds my gaze. Most children glance away quickly when they notice a stranger staring at them. Jesse doesn’t. He studies me with quiet curiosity, tilting his head slightly in a gesture that feels eerily familiar.
My chest tightens.
I’ve seen that exact expression in the mirror.
“Hey,” I say softly, lifting one hand in a small wave even though he probably can’t hear me through the glass.
He blinks once.
