“That’s because it is.”
I grin despite myself. “We’re doing well.”
“We’re in danger.”
“Both can be true.”
She turns then, green eyes sharp and alive with all the things she never says when a room is full of microphones. “Bron, do not get comfortable. This is where people make stupid mistakes because they start thinking survival means safety.”
“Good thing I’ve got you around.”
“You say that like it’s charming.”
“It is charming.”
“It is deeply annoying.”
Still, she doesn’t deny the point.
Top five. The number hums under my skin all morning. Not because of the glory of it, though I’d be lying if I said some old bright primitive part of me doesn’t still react to the proximity of a finish line. Not for the cameras either. The fact of the matter is uglier and simpler: top five means proximity to the money, and proximity to the money means proximity to paying off Mysk before he decides my body parts would appreciate market separation.
Which is why, later that afternoon, when I get a message ping from a contact I haven’t heard from in months, my stomach drops before I’ve even opened it.
The message is from Julo.
He is, depending on which law enforcement database you ask, a bookmaker, a facilitator, an information courier, a cultural parasite, or “that smiling bastard with the silver tooth.” I met him years ago in a backstage card room orbiting a mid-tier fight moon where I was making terrible choices with men who smelled like whiskey and synthetic fur. We are not friends. But he is useful in the way unstable chemical compounds are useful: dangerous, unpleasant, but occasionally the only thing that gets a job done.
I leave the commons and duck into one of the maintenance balconies overlooking the lower arena access roads before I answer. The balcony is empty except for a row of locked supply cabinets and a cleaning cart that smells aggressively of lemon solvent. Warm wind moves up from the service lanes below, carrying dust, fuel residue, and the distant metallic bark of cargo loaders. I tap the call live.
Julo’s face appears in a holo bloom above my wrist. Narrow features. Bald head. Silver tooth catching the light when he smiles. He looks exactly like a man who would sell strategic advice at a funeral if the margins were good enough.
“Bronwyn,” he purrs. “Still alive. Delightful.”
“Your concern moves me.”
“Don’t be sentimental. I’m calling because your life has become expensive to other people.”
I lean back against the rail. “That sounds bad.”
“It is bad.” He sucks air through his teeth. “There is serious money moving through the underground books on this contest. Serious enough that small operators are getting squeezed out by syndicate bets. Everybody wants the upset structure. Big swings. Final-round blood. There’s chatter your old friend Mysk has positioned himself heavily.”
Cold slides cleanly through my chest.
“On me winning?” I ask.
Julo laughs. “Bron, if Mysk had faith in you, he wouldn’t have threatened to redecorate you. No. He’s spread action across a couple of likely finalists, but the big angle is manipulation. He thinks the result can be nudged.”
“Nudged how.”
“Accidents. Sabotage. Pressure. A contestant under debt suddenly underperforming at a useful moment.” Julo tilts his head. “Sound familiar?”
I say nothing.
He reads the silence correctly and keeps going. “Listen to me carefully. This isn’t ordinary degenerate gambling anymore. The books are too fat. When that happens, men like Mysk stop playing games and start rearranging outcomes.”
A service lift groans somewhere below the balcony, chains rattling in the shaft. The sound scratches at my nerves.
“You sure this is him,” I ask.
