Not the dramatic kind people write poetry about, but the real thing—the sharp metallic tang of sweat soaked into clothing after hours of strain, the stale breath of exhaustion, the faint electric scent of overheated arena equipment humming in the background. When the endurance challenge finally ends and the stadium lights dim to something less blinding, my entire body feels like it has been hollowed out and replaced with sand. Every muscle complains when I move, and the inside of my throat tastes like dust and adrenaline.
Tilda walks beside me down the service corridor that leads away from the arena floor. The roar of the crowd fades behind us, replaced by the steady mechanical hum of ventilation fans and maintenance drones already beginning their nightly repairs. The overhead lights here are softer than the stadium glare, but they still feel too bright for the headache pounding at the base of my skull.
Neither of us says anything at first.
That silence isn’t comfortable. It’s the kind of silence that exists when two people know a conversation has been postponed for far too long and the weight of it is finally too heavy to ignore.
I slow my pace slightly.
“Tilda.”
She doesn’t stop walking.
“We’re not doing this tonight,” she says without looking at me.
“Actually,” I reply quietly, “we are.”
She exhales through her nose, the way she always does when she’s deciding whether arguing with me is worth the energy. For a moment I think she might keep walking and leave the conversation hanging again, but then she stops halfway down the corridor and turns toward me.
Her expression is tired.
Not just physically tired.
Emotionally worn down in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
“What do you want, Bron?”
I take a breath.
The air smells faintly of cleaning solvent and warm circuitry.
“I want the truth.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“You already asked that question.”
“And you didn’t answer it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No,” I say calmly. “You avoided it.”
The corridor stretches empty in both directions. Somewhere far away a door closes with a soft mechanical click.
Tilda folds her arms.
“We just finished a twelve-hour endurance challenge.”
“And somehow I still have enough energy to ask the same question again.”
“Bron.”
“Is Jesse my son?”
The words land between us with the force of a dropped weight.
For a long moment she doesn’t move.
