Then the weight-transfer station.
A crate of weighted blocks sits on one side, a narrow stepped lane on the other. One partner must carry while the other calls pathing through unstable floor plates.
Bron looks at the crate and smiles like he’s just been handed a toy.
I immediately distrust that expression.
“No showing off.”
He glances at me. “What if my natural form is impressive?”
“What if your natural form gets us penalized?”
He laughs, crouches, and lifts the crate.
Too fast.
A floor plate ahead shifts under his first step.
“Stop!” I bark.
He freezes.
“Left. Then center. Slow.”
He follows my instructions, but I can feel the friction building now—the difference between us grinding like mismatched gears. I want system, sequence, discipline. He wants motion. Adaptation. Instinct. We are not failing, exactly, but we are not clean either.
At the puzzle gate, I grab the code reader. “I’ll call symbols. You input.”
He puts both hands on the rotating lock wheels. “Try not to insult me while we work.”
“No promises.”
The symbols flash.
“Three-point arc. Double line. Hollow square. Left diagonal.”
His hands move fast. Too fast.
“Stop freelancing.”
“I saw the pattern.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
The lock jams.
A warning tone blares.
I close my eyes for one dangerous second. “I am going to bury you under this gate.”
“Constructive,” he says, but there’s strain in it now too.
We reset, do it my way, and the gate releases.
We sprint the final unstable platforms with frustration buzzing hot between us like exposed current. By the time we hit the end pad, I’m breathing hard and so angry I could sharpen into a weapon.
