Balance section. I set the rhythm and he matches it, mostly. A fraction too eager on the third span, enough to wobble the beam under both of us.
“Stop anticipating me,” I hiss.
“I’m literally next to you.”
“Then try being less aggressively next to me.”
He laughs—actually laughs—while correcting his stance, and for one insane second I want to shove him into the pit just for emotional consistency.
Rotating cylinder.
We crouch at the edge, watching the rhythm.
“Now?” he asks.
“Wait.”
“Now?”
“Wait.”
“Now?”
I turn my head. “Are you trying to be murdered before the first elimination round?”
His grin flashes quick and wicked. “Just checking whether your murderous instincts are still sharp.”
“Bron.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The low point aligns.
“Now.”
We go together.
That part works beautifully, which is infuriating. He adjusts quickly, plants exactly where I need him, counterbalances without crowding me. We hit the far platform in sync.
The crawl tunnel is worse. Low, enclosed, full of pressure panels that blink amber if either of us loads the wrong zone too hard.
“Even weight distribution,” I say.
“I know what those words mean.”
“Your past choices suggest otherwise.”
We crawl.
The tunnel smells like heated metal and old rubber. My knees protest. One panel flickers red when Bron shifts too much of his weight forward.
“Too heavy on the right,” I snap.
“That feels pointed.”
“It’s data.”
We clear it only slightly behind ideal time.
