Mysk.
The debt.
The mess I made before any of this started.
I scrub a hand over my face.
“Idiot,” I mutter.
“Sir?” the officer asks.
“Not you.”
We reach the edge of the arena where medics are setting up triage stations. Injured contestants sit or lie on portable cots, some laughing shakily, others staring into space like they haven’t quite caught up with reality yet.
I step past them.
Keep moving.
Because I need to find her.
I need to?—
“There he is!”
I look up.
One of the production assistants is pointing at me, talking rapidly into a comm.
“Get a camera on him—he’s the one who?—”
I hold up a hand.
“No.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“No interviews,” I say flatly.
“But the audience?—”
“Not now.”
I keep walking.
I don’t have the energy for performance.
Not anymore.
Not after that.
I push through the exit corridor into the compound perimeter.
The air here is cooler, cleaner, but it doesn’t feel any less heavy.
Emergency vehicles line the transport lanes.
