That gets their attention.
“Oh hell,” someone mutters.
“Exit tunnels are that way!” I point toward the far edge of the arena where emergency access corridors are partially visible between the terrain modules.
“Go!” Tilda adds. “Now!”
They don’t argue this time.
They run.
The cameras are still rolling.
I can see them hovering overhead, capturing everything.
Every second.
Every near miss.
Every terrified scramble.
The crowd noise has shifted now.
Less cheering.
More confusion.
More fear.
The beast crashes through another structure, sending a shockwave of dust and debris rippling outward.
“Tilda!” I shout.
She’s already moving, heading toward another cluster of contestants trapped near a collapsed platform.
“Hey!” she calls. “This way!”
I follow, shoving aside a piece of twisted metal blocking the path.
My muscles strain as I lift it just enough for two people to crawl under.
“Go!” I bark.
They scramble through.
Tilda grabs my arm as the ground shakes again.
“That thing’s getting closer.”
“I noticed.”
We turn.
The proto-beast looms across the arena, its massive body tearing through obstacles like they’re inconveniences rather than barriers. Its eyes—bright, predatory—lock onto movement.
Onto us.
“Well,” I say, breathless. “That’s unfortunate.”
