I finally look at him fully. “Bron.”
His face settles instantly. “I know.”
“No improvising.”
“None.”
“No camera heroics.”
“Mm-hm.”
“No taking a stupid risk because it looks dramatic or because you think shaving two seconds matters more than staying synchronized.”
He meets my eyes and, to my intense annoyance, there is no deflection in him at all. “I said I know.”
For one suspended beat, I simply look at him. It is still occasionally startling how much I believe him now.
The arena floor smells like hot steel, engine grease, and the faint ozone bite of energy systems charging to life. Above us, the crowd is already in a frenzy, their noise rolling down in waves that make the metal under my boots seem to vibrate. Floodlights burn across the vast mechanical structure, turning every moving surface into a shifting blade of brightness and shadow. I can hear servos whining deep within the arena frame, gears locking and unlocking with huge industrial clanks, and beneath all of it thelow predatory hum of a machine designed to punish hesitation as efficiently as arrogance.
When the starting horn sounds, all five couples launch at once.
The first section is exactly the kind of chaos I expected. Two teams break for the lower ring immediately, choosing the route that appears faster because people have an almost spiritual devotion to obvious mistakes. The outer walkways begin rotating in opposing directions, and within seconds one pair is already shouting at each other while trying to clear a retracting bridge before the next rotation cycle. To our left, Vanna and Pajack commit to the central rise with the cool, athletic confidence of people who have been making brutal choices with their bodies for most of their adult lives. Zack and Dartha peel toward the upper north route. Bron and I angle for the upper east corridor and keep moving.
“Second crossover,” I say.
“I see it.”
The first rotating span slides under us with a metallic groan. I step onto it, feel the shift under my boots, and adjust automatically for the motion. Bron matches pace at my shoulder instead of forging ahead the way he would have weeks ago. Below us, a lower catwalk buckles and retracts entirely, and someone swears with operatic bitterness as a safety field catches them in a wash of blue light. Elimination. The crowd roars approval as if almost dying is a trick done for their birthday.
“Lovely people,” Bron mutters.
“Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We hit the second crossover just as the lane divider opens. I duck through first, Bron right behind me, and the sound changes immediately. The service bridge is enclosed on both sides by vertical machine ribs, cutting some of the crowd noise andreplacing it with the clatter and hiss of internal machinery. The air is warmer here and tastes faintly of lubricant and charged dust. Narrow rails run along the floor, and every third plate dips half an inch under weight before settling. I file that away while Bron says, “This path feels illegal.”
“It feels efficient.”
“Same difference.”
Ahead, the first puzzle gate blooms to life as we approach—a circular lock assembly with multiple rotating segments and four color-coded pressure hubs. Of course. Something designed to look physical while actually punishing brute force. Bron steps toward the main wheel.
“Don’t,” I snap.
He stops immediately.
I kneel at the lower hub array and scan the pattern. The colors are decoys. The real sequence is in the tiny indicator runes around the inner ring, cycling in staggered repetition. One blue, two white, one red, pause, reverse. My mind catches the rhythm and maps it.
“Blue, white, white, red,” I say. “Then hold.”
Bron presses the first two hubs with one hand while I handle the other pair. The mechanism shudders. The main wheel unlocks with a heavy click.
“Now rotate sixty degrees clockwise and stop on the second detent.”
He does. Not because he understands the whole sequence, maybe, but because he trusts me to. The gate splits open.
“That was annoyingly elegant,” he says.
