Page 47 of Lethal in Pink

“That’s rich coming from someone who probably color-codes her kill streaks,” I fire back.

She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps playing, her expression maintaining that pleasant, slightly amused neutrality that is, objectively, the most infuriating thing I have encountered all week.

“I use a gradient system,” she says smoothly. “Purple for snipes, blue for close-range, yellow for environmental kills. Pink for when I’m feeling particularly vindictive.”

I exhale sharply through my nose.

The next engagement goes poorly. I push too aggressively into a building, get pinched between two squads, and go down. I watch my screen turn gray as Amiyah calmly wipes the remaining duo, grabs my banner card from my deathbox, and sprint-slides toward the nearest Respawn Beacon to call me back into the fight.

She finishes the match with fourteen kills. I finish with three.

The screens flash in brilliant gold letters: YOU ARE THE APEX CHAMPIONS.

She sets her controller down on the cushion beside her, and pops a handful of garlic popcorn into her mouth without breaking eye contact with the match summary.

“Good first match,” she says. “You warmed up now?”

I am, in fact, not warmed up. I am the opposite of warmed up. I am a man whose entire understanding of his own competence has just been publicly dismantled by a woman in cat slippers who is currently eating garlic popcorn with the serene confidence of someone who has never once questioned whether she belongs exactly where she is.

I sit up straighter. Adjust my grip on the controller. The plastic is warm from my palms.

“Again.”

She smiles. It’s not a mean smile. It’s worse than a mean smile. It’s the smile of someone who has already calculated the outcome of the next match and is politely waiting for me to catch up.

She produces wet wipes from her bag and wipes down her hands before picking the controller back up.

The lobby loads. My thumbs find the sticks. The countdown begins.

The blue light from the screens catches the edge of Amiyah’s profile—the curve of her cheek, the slight part of her lips as she concentrates, the way one strand of her golden hair has fallen across her forehead and she hasn’t bothered to push it back.

I lose track of the countdown. The match starts. I’m still looking at her.

She notices without turning. “Eyes on your drop, Jae.”

We drop. The map rushes up again, and this time I’m ready.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

My thumbs find the rhythm they’ve been hunting for since the first drop. The controller settles into my palms like something that belongs there. The drop zone materializes—Olympus, this time, all sleek white architecture and open sightlines—and I pick a spot two buildings over from Amiyah’s chosen landing. Not too close. Close enough.

The first engagement happens at a supply bin. I get the weapon first. A Peacekeeper.

I round the corner and find an enemy looting. Two quick pumps close-range. The kill notification pops, and something hot and satisfied uncurls in my chest.

“That’s one,” I say, my voice coming out sharper than I meant it to.

Amiyah says nothing. Her Horizon glides past my position on a gravity lift, executes a perfect slide into cover, and dispatches someone on a distant balcony with a sniper shot so clean it barely registers as effort.

The second engagement goes better. I flank a squad pushing through the central plaza, catch the last one retreating, and drop him with a Wingman headshot that makes the controller vibrate with the particular pleasure of a perfect connection.

“Two,” I say, and this time there’s an edge to it.

“Mm,” she replies.

The third kill comes from a thermite toss into a choke point where I’d seen movement. The fire lights up the screen, and the squad tracker updates.

“Three.” My English has shifted, the syllables coming out cleaner.“You going to actually shoot back this round?”