“Fantastic,” I tell the empty room. “Love a waking nightmare with premium bedding.”
The wall screen blinks on in response to my voice, which feels invasive.
GOOD MORNING, BRON. FIRST ELIMINATION CHALLENGE BEGINS IN 02:10:43.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “I hate you.”
I shower fast, dress in the provided challenge gear, and stare at the black-and-silver athletic uniform like it personally offended me. Compression fabric, sponsor striping, reinforced seams, all tailored to move well and photograph better. The shirt clings in places that will absolutely delight the viewing public and irritate me on principle.
A breakfast tray waits outside my door when I open it. Protein, fruit, coffee strong enough to count as medicinal intervention. I take it back inside, sit on the edge of the bed, and force myself to eat even though my stomach is doing nervous little flips like it’s considering escape.
The packet for today’s first elimination challenge keeps replaying in my head.
Bridge crossing.
Elevated hazard.
Swinging obstacles.
Variable footing.
Team completion required.
And the trainer’s verdict from last night keeps replaying right alongside it.
You don’t trust each other. Fix it by morning or you’ll bleed time.
“Charming,” I say to the coffee.
The coffee, unlike most authority figures in my life, is useful and silent.
By the time contestants are called to the central arena, the compound is fully awake. Transport carts hum. Drones glide overhead in bright morning light. Staff move with the unnatural speed of people who already know how the day ends and are enjoying our ignorance.
The elimination arena is packed.
Not with a full public audience—this is still the early phase—but enough sponsor guests, media personnel, production staff, and internal viewers to make the place feel electric. Tiered seating curves around the challenge floor. Massive display screens hover overhead. Music pulses from hidden speakers with the expensive menace of a military parade repackaged as entertainment.
I find Tilda near lane assignments, already geared up, already focused, already looking like she’d rather peel her own skin off than be standing anywhere near me.
Which, in fairness, may well be true.
She has her hair braided back tight today. No softness left to it. No room for anything to come loose. Her eyes flick to me once as I approach, then back to the course schematic on the screen.
“Morning,” I say.
“Debatable,” she replies.
“Promising start.”
“Did you eat?”
The question catches me so off-guard I blink. “What?”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
I stare at her.
She exhales through her nose, impatient. “If you crash halfway through because you thought caffeine counted as nutrition, I will throw you into the fish myself.”
