The final section of the course requires both of us to cross a series of pressure plates simultaneously while a rotating barrier sweeps through the corridor.
“Three steps,” she says quietly.
“Then jump.”
“Got it.”
“One.”
We move.
“Two.”
The barrier roars past behind us.
“Three.”
We jump.
The finish platform appears ahead.
We land together just as the horn sounds.
The scoreboard lights up above the arena.
Safe ranking.
The crowd cheers.
I exhale slowly and lean forward with my hands on my knees.
“Well,” I say breathlessly. “That worked.”
Tilda looks at me with an expression that’s half curiosity, half cautious approval.
“You followed every instruction.”
“Turns out you’re good at strategy.”
“I always have been.”
“Guess I’m finally catching on.”
We walk toward the exit tunnel while the remaining teams attempt the final sequence behind us.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Then she says quietly, “You’re different lately.”
I shrug.
“Maybe I’m finally growing up.”
“That would be convenient.”
“It would.”
The tunnel lights flicker overhead as we enter the compound corridor.
