The compound sprawls out in every direction like a rich man’s fantasy of hardship. Housing towers in smooth white tiers. Training structures all angles and steel and glass. Massive enclosed arenas with retractable walls. Media buildings that glint so hard in the sun they look less like offices and more like temples dedicated to the worship of public humiliation.
Contestants pour through the main arrivals concourse in clusters, all of us tagged and scanned and directed by smiling staff with headsets and impossible posture. Somewhere overhead, camera drones drift lazily, already collecting footage. We haven’t even bled for them yet and they’re circling.
A woman in a fitted charcoal uniform checks my wristband and glances at her slate. “Bron Varek. Residential Block A, room 3A-27.”
“Lovely,” I say. “Will my room include a panic spiral or do I supply my own?”
She doesn’t laugh. Tragic.
“Mandatory welcome briefing is uploaded to your packet. Mandatory sponsor and media reception at nineteen hundred in Solarium Hall.”
“Mandatory socializing,” I say. “My favorite type.”
She gives me the kind of neutral smile staff are trained to deploy when contestants start sounding feral. “Enjoy your first evening on Fratvoy One.”
“That feels premature, but thank you.”
I move on before she can decide whether I’m a problem worth flagging.
My room turns out to be better than I deserve and less luxurious than I’d feared, which is somehow ideal. Clean lines, smart storage, a wide bed, actual soundproofing, a shower big enough to regret things in properly. The wall screen hums awake when I enter and flashes a welcome message with my name in shimmering silver.
“Bold of you to assume I’m welcome anywhere,” I tell it.
I dump the bag, set the guitar case on the stand by the desk, and do a fast circuit out of habit. Balcony door locked. Bathroom stocked. Mini-chiller full of nutrient drinks and fruit. Closet empty except for a garment bag from production, which means they’ve already selected an outfit for tonight and I’ll deal with that insult later.
I splash water on my face, drink a full glass straight from the tap, and stare at myself in the mirror.
Better.
Not good. Let’s not get aspirational. But better.
The hangover that tried to murder me yesterday has retreated to a dull ache behind my eyes. My hair is tied back. My shirt is clean. I still look like trouble, which has historically been one of my more bankable qualities.
I should rest.
Instead I head right back out, because sitting still in a new place while my future hangs over a pit with live commentary feels like a poor emotional strategy.
The central walkways of the compound are already alive by the time I get down there. Contestants drift between buildings in workout gear, sponsor merch, and varying degrees of self-conscious bravado. Staff zip past with tablets. Maintenance carts hum along the edges. Somewhere nearby there’s the clang of metal and a burst of cheers that prickle over my skin.
I follow the noise.
Training Arena Two opens before me in a long oval bowl of reinforced steel and composite glass. Half the side wall is transparent, giving spectators a full view inside. A dozen contestants are already in there running one of the lower-level obstacle circuits under the eye of trainers wearing black GXC jackets.
I stop at the rail.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
The course is a nightmare assembled by committee. Tilt platforms suspended over a cushioned pit. Rotating bars. Climb walls that shift angle mid-ascent. A stretch of uneven moving ground that looks specifically designed to destroy ankles and self-esteem. One contestant hits a swinging hold too late and gets spun sideways into the padding with enough force to make the crowd outside the rail collectively wince.
The trainer blows a whistle. “Again!”
A huge Trinex woman just laughs, spits blood into the pit, and climbs back up.
I lean my forearms on the rail and watch, deeply insulted by how athletic everybody is being before sunset.
A voice beside me says, “You look horrified.”
I glance over.
