Second segment. Narrower. Rails only waist high. A split in the path ahead—left wider, right tighter.
The wider path looks easier.
It also looks suspiciously like a trap designed by a producer who understands ego.
I hear Tilda in my head:assume it’s lying unless I confirm it.
And because I am, regrettably, still myself, the thought lands right as a pendulum gap opens on the left and adrenaline slams through me like a dare.
I go for it.
Not far. Two steps. Three. Fast enough to feel clever for exactly half a heartbeat.
Then the plank under my right foot clicks.
Every instinct in me goes cold.
“Bron!” Tilda’s voice cracks through the arena noise like a whip.
A seam opens two feet ahead.
Not a full collapse, not yet, but the beginning of one—a trapdoor panel unlocking beneath momentum, ready to drop the next step clean through into the Razorfin tank.
“Back!” she shouts.
I react on instinct, but not fast enough to be graceful.
The swinging obstacle above changes rhythm with a metallic snap, coming down faster than it should. My balance goes sideways. One boot skids. The rail is suddenly too far and the water too close and the fish are surging upward in a silver-black frenzy below.
Then a hand clamps hard around the back of my harness and yanks.
Tilda.
She hauls me backward with a force born of fury and leverage, dragging me off the trap path just as the panel drops open where I would have stepped next.
The crowd screams.
Not in horror. In excitement.
Because of course they do.
I slam into the stable section hard enough that my teeth clack. Tilda plants herself between me and the bad route, chest heaving, eyes absolutely incandescent.
“What,” she says in a voice so controlled it has become lethal, “did I just say?”
I blink at her.
Above us, the pendulum thunders past.
“I—”
“No.” She points at the trap panel, now slowly resetting over churned murderous water. “You do not get to improvise over carnivorous fish because you felt optimistic for a second.”
The fish leap under the open seam, teeth flashing white.
“Point taken,” I say.
“Was it?”
