I whip around just in time to see a massive section of the arena wall shear away under the force of the proto-beast’s tail. The impact sends shards of metal and debris spiraling through the air like shrapnel.
“Down!” someone screams.
I duck instinctively as a chunk of twisted steel whistles overhead and slams into the ground with a thunderous crack.
Dust surges into the air, choking and thick.
I cough, blinking hard as grit stings my eyes.
Through the haze, I catch glimpses of movement.
Contestants running.
Security personnel shouting into comms that don’t seem to be working.
Camera drones still hovering, still recording, their lenses tracking every second of this unfolding disaster like it’s just another episode.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“Of course you’re still filming,” I mutter.
Because why wouldn’t they be?
Disaster gets ratings.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and turn, searching.
“Bron!”
My voice vanishes into the noise.
I push forward anyway, weaving through debris and scattered equipment, scanning every moving figure for him.
Nothing.
A spike of panic lances through my chest.
No.
No, not now.
Focus.
Find people.
Move them out.
Find him.
The sequence loops in my head like a command structure I refuse to break.
A group of contestants appears ahead, clustered near a jammed gate.
“Why isn’t it opening?” one of them shouts, slamming a hand against the control panel.
“It’s locked!” another yells.
I sprint toward them.
