“Bron—”
“Run.”
We move.
Fast.
Not toward the finish.
Not toward victory.
Toward survival.
Toward getting as many people out of this disaster as we can.
Because somewhere in the chaos of crashing steel and roaring crowds and failing containment systems, one thing becomes painfully, crystal clear.
This isn’t a game anymore.
And winning doesn’t matter.
Only getting out alive does.
CHAPTER 33
TILDA
The world has a sound when it starts to come apart.
It isn’t just the roar of the proto-beast tearing through steel and concrete like it’s ripping open a tin can, or the panicked screams of contestants scattering across the arena. It’s deeper than that. A layered, grinding cacophony of failing systems, shearing metal, and the low, ominous groan of infrastructure pushed far beyond its limits.
It sounds like something breaking that was never meant to break.
“THIS WAY!” I shout, my voice raw already as I wave a cluster of contestants toward the emergency access corridor carved into the arena’s far perimeter. “Don’t stop—keep moving!”
They hesitate, eyes wide, still caught between disbelief and adrenaline.
Behind us, the proto-beast roars again.
The sound slams into my back like a physical blow.
That does it.
They run.
Boots pound against the uneven terrain as they scramble toward the exit, tripping over debris, shoving past one another in that desperate, animal rush for safety.
“Go, go, go!” I yell, grabbing one woman by the arm and physically turning her toward the corridor. “Don’t look back!”
She stumbles forward and disappears into the dimly lit tunnel along with the others.
For half a second, I let myself breathe.
Then the ground shakes again.
Harder this time.
A deep, bone-jarring tremor that travels up through my legs and into my spine.
