“I am not a contestant.”
“You are if you sign.”
He flicks something on the holo. Prize numbers spin into view. Housing package. Stipend. Advancement bonuses. Performance-linked promotion review.
My pulse pounds.
It gets worse.
I see childcare accommodations listed for contestants with dependents.
I go very still.
Brautigaum notices. Of course he does. Sharks always smell blood.
“Ah,” he says softly, triumphant. “There it is.”
I lift my eyes to his. “If I did this—if—I would need guaranteed housing for the duration. Real housing. Not a bunk. And full childcare for my son during all events, training, and transit.”
He smiles. “Negotiating already. Excellent.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I would need it in writing. Specifics. No vague language. No ‘subject to availability.’ Guaranteed.”
He tilts his head. “Anything else?”
A thousand things. A raise. Hazard pay. A universe not run by lunatics.
I swallow. “If I survive your publicity stunt, I want a formal promotion review.”
He spreads his hands. “Done.”
“That’s too fast.”
“It’s good television.”
I close my eyes for one dangerous second.
When I open them, the holo contract glows between us like a trap with excellent branding.
This is insane.
This is humiliating.
This is possibly the only way I keep a roof over Jesse’s head.
Brautigaum slides a stylus toward me. “Tilda, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
I let out a breath that tastes like burnt coffee and panic. “That’s usually what people say right before a disaster.”
He laughs like we’re friends.
I look at the contract. At the childcare clause. At the housing clause. At the money.
Then I think of Jesse saying chair sad.
