I set my bags down and stand in the middle of the room while Jesse toddles toward the viewport with a gasp.
Beyond the glass, Syfer Station glows against the dark like a jeweled wheel.
This is real now.
No office. No apartment. No pretending it’s just paperwork and signatures.
I rest my fingers on the back of the reinforced chair, testing its weight, its steadiness.
Strategic challenge, I tell myself.
Not entertainment.
Not fear.
Not spectacle.
A problem.
A series of problems, actually. Physical, social, logistical, political. Fine. I solve problems. That is what I do. I solve them in ugly rooms with bad coffee and impossible constraints while people with nicer shoes make everything worse.
So I will solve this too.
I look at Jesse, his small hand pressed to the window, his scales glowing warm copper in reflected starlight.
“For you,” I say under my breath.
Then I square my shoulders, open the event brief again, and start planning how to beat a machine built to turn people into a show.
CHAPTER 4
BRON
By the time I get to the contestant transport terminal, I have repaired my door badly, sold three things I regret owning, ignored four calls from numbers I do not trust, and achieved the kind of sleep deprivation that makes every bright surface look personally judgmental.
I’m carrying one guitar case, one small travel bag, and the last intact fragments of my dignity.
The terminal rises out of the commercial dock district in a sweep of silver glass and polished steel, all sponsor banners and security drones and overdesigned confidence. Huge holo-displays spin over the entrance, flooding the concourse with light and motion.
GALACTIC EXTREME CHALLENGE
NEW SEASON. NEW LEGENDS.
“Mm,” I mutter, looking up at it. “Or new corpses. Depends on editing.”
Nobody hears me over the crowd.
The place is packed. Contestants. Production staff. media scavengers. Families clinging to people who are trying to look brave. Vendors pushing coffee, nutrition packs, branded merch, and tiny commemorative challenge helmets for children whoseparents clearly hate peace. Smells like roasted beans, hot metal, recirculated coolant, perfume, stress sweat, and that weird sweet ozone tang from security scanners.
I hitch the guitar case higher on my shoulder and keep moving.
I debated bringing it.
Then I looked around my apartment, at the stripped-down remains of a life that has always fit inside applause better than silence, and thought,No. Not leaving that behind. If I’m about to throw myself into a galaxy-famous torture pageant, I’m taking the one thing that still sounds like me.
Also, the case has hidden compartments, and a man in my circumstances respects versatility.
I step into the check-in line and immediately regret possessing eyes.
