“Too far. Back half a step.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You know, in another life, this could’ve been foreplay.”
I slam a block into the lower slot. “Speak less.”
He laughs again, and this time I hear strain under it. Good. We’re both suffering.
A pair of hazard drones rises from the rail with a nasty little whine. Bron swears and swings the baton, knocking the first one aside before it can fire. The second clips his shoulder with a burst of sparks. He hisses.
I look up. “You hit?”
“Still handsome.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’m fine.”
The word comes out tight.
I slot the final block. The frame flashes green. The platform stabilizes with a heavy thunk and the bridge ahead extends.
Bron flexes his stung arm once, jaw hard.
I’m on my feet before I think about it. “Let me see.”
He blinks at me. “You’re stopping?”
“For two seconds. Arm.”
He offers it, almost cautiously.
The sleeve of his challenge shirt is singed near the shoulder. Underneath, the skin is reddening around a shallow burn.Vakutan durability means it isn’t as bad as it could be, but it still sends a hot mean streak of worry through me.
I hate that too.
“You should’ve ducked faster,” I mutter.
His eyes stay on my face. “That sounded an awful lot like concern.”
“It was criticism. Don’t get excited.”
Something in his mouth softens anyway.
I step back at once. “We’re losing time.”
The last major station is a nightmare of moving columns and mirrored panels covered in directional arrows. Half the symbols are decoys. Below us, the mist churns in the shaft like breathing.
I wipe my palm on my pant leg and force myself still.
“Okay,” I say. “Listen carefully. The mirrors are projecting false routes. Watch the reflected arrows, not the lit ones.”
Bron squints. “That is a hateful sentence.”
“I know. Start on my count. Left, center, hold.”
He nods.
I track the pattern—one column rises, another rotates, a hidden arrow flashes in the reflection and not on the face. There. There.
