I don’t move.
At the threshold he pauses and looks back over one shoulder. “You should sleep if you can, Bronwyn. Finals are exhausting. Regret more so.”
Then he is gone, the Odex filing out after him in a wall of muscle and old blood smell and boot-thuds heavy enough to vibrate faintly through the floor. The service door seals with a hiss that sounds far too neat after a conversation like that.
For several seconds I just stand there listening to the silence he leaves behind.
Then I breathe.
Once.
Twice.
The prep bay smells different now, or maybe I do. Adrenaline, anger, the metallic edge of almost-violence. My palms ache. I look down and realize I have clenched them hard enough for the nails to mark crescents into the skin. Somewhere outside, a lift passes with a low mechanical rumble. The compound keeps moving. Doesn’t it always. The machine never pauses just because one man’s life has become more dangerous.
I slip a hand into my pocket and feel the fossil Jesse gave me.
The stone’s rough edge anchors me instantly.
All right.
Mysk is here. Mysk is serious. Mysk thinks the final can be manipulated and that I am still enough of the man I used to be to accept that offer when pressed hard enough.
He is wrong.
But wrong men with money and access remain dangerous.
Which means the rest of the night is no longer theoretical. I need to move. Quietly. Fast. I need to verify whether his entry was a one-time breach or evidence of a compromised access route. I need to decide whether telling Tilda everything now would help or only fracture the focus we need tomorrow. I need to warn someone—but not just anyone. Production would bury it if it threatened the event. Compound security might already be blind in selective directions. Brautigaum would probably turn a crime alert into a sponsorship slogan.
My jaw tightens.
No. I cannot assume the system will save us. That is the first rule. The second is even simpler: if Mysk wants tomorrow to become chaos, then tomorrow stops being a game.
I kill the diagnostics screen, unlock the prep bay’s emergency schematic overlay again, and start walking.
CHAPTER 29
TILDA
The air inside the contestant compound carries the peculiar density of a place balanced on the edge of something irreversible. Every breath tastes faintly metallic, as though the building itself understands that the day ahead will not resemble any that came before it. The ventilation system hums softly through the reinforced ceilings, pushing recycled air across the corridors where technicians hurry past with equipment crates and camera drones drift overhead like curious mechanical insects. A low murmur of voices fills the space, contestants and production staff alike speaking with that particular restraint people adopt when excitement and dread are occupying the same corner of the mind.
Today is the championship event.
Somewhere beyond the walls of this compound a colossal stadium roars with anticipation, tens of thousands of spectators packed into tiered seating beneath blazing lights while countless millions more watch through holonet streams across half the known galaxy. Those viewers are likely sprawled across couches or clustered around bar tables, drinks in hand, cheering and wagering with easy enthusiasm about which of us will triumphand which will collapse into the dirt under the brutal pressure of the final trial.
The thought settles uneasily in my chest as Bron and I walk through the long preparation corridor that leads toward the staging sector. His boots strike the floor plating with a heavy, deliberate rhythm, the sound echoing faintly through the steel-lined hall. The overhead lighting glides across the gold sheen of his scales and catches in the scar carved across one eye, emphasizing the rugged strength of his face and the coiled power in his shoulders. He looks like something torn from a legend of war and victory, an ancient champion wandering through a modern arena that exists primarily for spectacle and entertainment.
Ordinarily Bron would be talking.
Bron always talks.
He narrates the moment, teases the tension out of situations with irreverent humor, or fills the silence with some outrageous observation that makes me roll my eyes even when I secretly appreciate the distraction. Today, however, he walks beside me with an unusual quietness that immediately sets my nerves on edge.
I glance up at him, studying the rigid line of his posture.
“All right,” I say slowly.
He turns his head slightly. “Mm?”
