When the official board posts, our names sit comfortably above the elimination cut.
Safe.
I let out a breath I don’t remember holding.
Tilda reads the board once, then again, as if distrusting survival on principle. “We’re through.”
“We are.”
She nods once. Small. Controlled. But the relief under it is real.
A production runner darts over with the manic cheer of someone under orders. “Congratulations! Viewers responded strongly to your recovery dynamic. You’ll have a post-challenge interview slot in media bay three.”
Tilda stares at her. “No.”
The runner blinks. “It’s mandatory.”
“Of course it is,” I say.
Tilda closes her eyes briefly, then exhales. “Fine.”
As the runner scurries off, I look at Tilda.
At the damp braid and the fierce set of her face.
At the intelligence still crackling behind her eyes.
At the reality that if she hadn’t seen the trap, if she hadn’t pulled me back, if she hadn’t forced me onto her route, I would very likely be in a med bay getting fish teeth counted out of me while a producer discussed my narrative arc.
The admission lands with humiliating clarity.
Her strategic thinking didn’t just help.
It saved us.
Maybe saved me.
I rub the back of my neck. “For the record…”
She glances over. “What.”
“You were probably the only reason we stayed in the contest.”
Tilda studies me for a second as though testing for sarcasm.
She doesn’t find any.
“Probably?” she says.
I huff a laugh. “Fine. Definitely. Happy?”
“No,” she says. “But I do appreciate accuracy.”
Then she turns toward the media corridor, towel draped over one shoulder like she’s heading to war and not an interview, and I follow because I’ve learned at least one useful thing today.
When Tilda says there’s a trap, there’s a trap.
And if I want to survive this contest, I’d be a fool not to listen.
