I flex my fingers and study the first puzzle tower: a waist-high console ringed by floating tiles, each marked with a different geometric sigil.
Nine.
Bron steps closer. “Talk to me.”
Eight.
“The floor sections will shift independently once we start. If I’m right, solving the console stabilizes each next segment.”
Seven.
“If you’re right?”
“Then we move. If I’m wrong, we plummet or get fried.”
He nods. “Beautiful. Love a plan with range.”
Six.
I look at him fully. “Bron.”
Five.
“For the next few minutes, don’t improvise unless I tell you to.”
Four.
His mouth curves. “Bossy.”
“Do you want to live?”
“Usually, yes.”
Three.
“Then listen.”
Two.
His expression settles. Real now. Focused. “I’m with you.”
One.
The buzzer sounds.
Our platform jolts forward.
The first set of stepping plates slides out over the drop in staggered intervals. I move immediately, hopping to the left plate, then the narrow center bar, then the next square as it glides under me. Bron lands behind me hard enough to make the plate shudder.
“Less stomping,” I snap.
“I’m very graceful for my size.”
A hazard beam sweeps toward us from the right. Bron catches my arm, yanks me backward against him for half a second, and the light hisses past the air where my throat was.
My pulse jumps straight into my teeth.
“Move,” I bark, because that’s easier than acknowledging the feel of his hand on me.
