If I hit the semis, I can hurt the debt.
If I win?—
I sit very still.
If I win the final round, I can pay Mysk in full.
Not stagger. Not stall. Not charm. Not negotiate for another week like a man rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.
Full.
The number lands in me like a struck bell.
For the first time since Mysk walked into my apartment with his theatrical drapery nonsense, the panic loosens around the edges.
It doesn’t vanish. I’m not blessed. But it changes shape. Becomes something I can grip.
Possible.
Across the aisle, a contestant with shaved silver brows glances over. “You look like you just found religion.”
“Worse,” I say without looking up. “A financial strategy.”
She barks a laugh and goes back to her own packet.
I keep reading.
Hazard disclosures are, somehow, both detailed and evasive. There are references to environmental variability, controlled kinetic elements, psychological pressure tactics, resource scarcity simulations, and “audience-integrated event enhancements,” which sounds like a war crime done by committee.
“Delightful,” I mutter.
The packet warns contestants that public favor can affect sponsorship opportunities and optional advantage bidding. Good. I can work a crowd. It’s the one muscle I’ve always trusted.
I make notes in the margins with the packet stylus.
Early rounds: avoid obvious alpha idiots.
Use underestimation.
Conserve strength when cameras want fireworks.
Smile through pain.
Never volunteer for group leadership unless the group is already on fire.
That last one, frankly, is just universal wisdom.
The shuttle hum deepens as we settle into cruise.
Around me, contestants do what frightened ambitious people do: posture, pretend, pray, scroll, nap. The influencer has finally shut up and is now watching old highlight clips with predatory intensity. Dax, three rows ahead, is making friends with someone built like an avalanche.
I flip another page, then stop.
There’s a flat compartment in the inside pocket of my guitar case. I know it’s there because I put things in it I don’t want to explain to myself.
Without quite deciding to, I unlatch the case and slide two fingers inside.
The photograph is old enough that the edges have softened.
