“I think it would be stupid not to consider the possibility.”
She steps into the room, the soft fabric of her trousers whispering against itself. “How wrong.”
I rub at the back of my neck. “I don’t know yet.”
That part, at least, is honest.
She looks at the schematics, then back at me. “And your response to uncertainty is apparently becoming responsible in secret.”
“That sounded mean.”
“It was observant.”
I smile faintly despite the knot in my chest. “I’m trying something new.”
“Mm.”
For a moment I think she’ll push harder. Instead she comes to stand behind my chair, reading the map over my shoulder. Her hand settles briefly on the back of my neck, not a demand, not even quite comfort, more like acknowledgment. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
“If there is a problem,” she says quietly, “you tell me.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Yeah.”
Not the full truth. Not yet. But close enough to sting.
She squeezes once and steps away. “Don’t stay up all night.”
“I make no promises.”
“That was the wrong answer.”
“It always is.”
When she leaves, the lab feels colder.
I stay another hour anyway.
By the time I finally shut down the screens, I have no grand plan, no cinematic certainty, no perfect way to stay ahead of a desperate criminal and a system designed to monetize chaos. What I do have is a clearer map of the building, a list of weak points, three names of likely contractor shells Julo mentioned that I can start quietly checking tomorrow, and a calm, ugly understanding that if Mysk decides to touch this contest, I may have to stop thinking like a contestant entirely.
As I head back toward the residential wing, the compound has gone mostly quiet. Floor lights cast amber bands along the corridor. Somewhere deep in the building, a generator shifts load with a low mechanical thrum. I slip a hand into my pocket and close my fingers around the fossil Jesse gave me. The stone is cool and rough and real.
Top five. Final stretch. Money everywhere. Cameras everywhere. A criminal idiot sniffing around the edges of something he should not touch.
I keep walking.
If Mysk wants to manipulate the ending, he is going to discover that there is a meaningful difference between the man he lent money to and the man walking these corridors now. The old Bron would have waited for the threat to become dramatic before reacting. The old Bron would have assumed charm, luck, and a decent right hook could solve the problem in real time.
The man I am trying to become starts sooner.
The man I am trying to become makes sure there is a line in the sand before anyone crosses it.
CHAPTER 27
TILDA
By the time the semifinal challenge briefing begins, the entire compound feels like a set of lungs breathing too fast.
Everything is sharper now. The lights seem brighter, the hallways narrower, the voices lower and tighter, as if every remaining contestant has unconsciously agreed to conserve energy for the violence ahead. There are only five couples left, and the knowledge changes the atmosphere in ways no producer could manufacture. Gone is the early-season chaos of too many people trying to turn themselves into memorable television. Gone are the louder egos, the weaker teams, the contestants who still thought charm alone could carry them through engineered catastrophe. What remains is discipline. Damage. Hunger. Even the air in the staging hall smells different this morning—less like perfume and pretense, more like coffee, metal, medicated muscle cream, and the dry electric sting of nerves held under control.
