Because sooner or later, Bron is going to meet his son properly.
And this time, I won’t stop it.
CHAPTER 22
BRON
Sleep does not come easily after you discover you have a two-year-old son.
That realization sits in my chest like a weight with sharp edges, shifting every time I move, every time my mind drifts for even a second. I spend most of the night staring at the dim ceiling of my quarters while the compound hums quietly around me. Ventilation fans whisper through the walls. Somewhere down the corridor a door opens and closes as another contestant returns from a late training session. The place never truly rests, but tonight it feels quieter than usual, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Jesse.
The name echoes through my thoughts.
My son.
Two years old.
Two years of first steps and first words and scraped knees and bedtime stories I was never there to see.
I roll onto my side and stare at the dark window panel beside the bed. The glass reflects a faint ghost of my own face—tired, older than I remember it being, and carrying an expression I’m not entirely sure how to interpret.
“Well,” I mutter softly, “you really outdid yourself this time.”
Because the truth Tilda dropped into my life yesterday doesn’t just change the future.
It reframes the past.
Every reckless stunt. Every impulsive decision. Every moment I treated danger like it was just another stage prop in the grand performance of Bron Verak.
All of it looks different now.
Eventually I give up on sleep entirely.
The training hallis nearly empty this early.
Morning light spills through the upper observation windows, painting long pale stripes across the polished floor while the automated obstacle rigs cycle through quiet maintenance routines. The air smells faintly of rubber mats, machine oil, and the bitter bite of cheap compound coffee someone left cooling on a nearby bench.
I sit alone at one of the analysis consoles with a tablet in my hands, scrolling through footage from the previous challenges.
This is new behavior for me.
The old version of Bron—the one Tilda remembers—would have spent this time doing push-ups, flirting with camera drones, or inventing unnecessary parkour routes across the training equipment just to see if anyone would stop him.
Instead I’m studying.
Watching.
Learning.
The video shows the canyon crossing from yesterday.
I pause the frame where Tilda signals me to wait for the wind gust to pass before stepping onto the cable line. In the background another team rushes forward too early and loses their footing almost immediately.
I rewind.
Play it again.
