“The final challenge is tomorrow.”
“Sharp math.”
She turns fully toward me.
“And if you don’t pay him?”
I hesitate again.
No point softening it.
“He kills me.”
For a long moment she doesn’t say anything.
Then she exhales slowly.
“That… explains a lot.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“I’m furious,” she says evenly. “But no, I’m not surprised.”
I lean against the railing harder.
“I thought I could win the prize money and fix it.”
“That’s still possible.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But he called yesterday.”
Her head snaps up.
“What?”
“Message on my compad. Real charming. Told me the betting syndicates are watching the finale.”
The anger in her eyes begins to sharpen into something colder.
“What did he want?”
I laugh again, though there’s no humor in it.
“He wants me to throw the final.”
The wind shifts across the balcony, carrying the scent of damp earth from the arena fields beyond the compound.
Tilda stares at me like she’s measuring the weight of what I’ve just said.
“And you told him no.”
“Immediately.”
“Bron.”
“Look,” I say quickly, turning toward her. “I didn’t even consider it.”
“You could die.”
