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Bryant’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Half the fuel.” He points at me. “And you leave. All of you. You leave and never come back.”

Clair mumbles from beside Poppy, “Wasn’t planning on vacationing here.”

Joanie calls down, “Zero stars. The food is shit.”

Bryant snaps his fingers at two of his people. “Take them to the fuel. Half. No more.”

Lyla’s rifle doesn’t move. “Carlos keeps the walkie until we’re clear.”

Bryant’s nostrils flare.

Carlos gives him a small wave with the walkie.

I shift toward Clair and Poppy, but Jacob steps into my path long enough to shove my bow into my hand.

I take it without looking away from my girls.

Then my quiver. My knife. My hatchet.

One by one, every piece of me goes back where it belongs. The familiar weight settles against me, and only then do I keep moving.

Clair’s eyes flick to mine, and all the blood and noise between us disappears.

I step in front of them, putting my body between my girls and the cannibals packed around the court.

Clair doesn’t argue.

That tells me enough about how badly she’s hurting.

Every step from the arena feels like walking across a floor made of glass.

Poppy’s fingers hook into the back of my shirt. Clair stays close behind me, one hand on my side for balance, the other holding the pistol down but ready. I can feel them both there with every step. Poppy’s trembling breaths. Clair’s uneven ones. My family, wounded and walking out of hell.

Lyla stays high until the last possible second, gun trained on Bryant. Joanie keeps grinning like she wants someone to test her, but her eyes are sharp. Carlos backs toward the stairwell with the walkie still raised. Jacob stays near us, eyes sweeping from face to face.

One of Bryant’s men drags a rolling flatbed from a service hall, stacked with metal fuel cans. Another follows with two more. The smell of gasoline cuts through the crowd, sharp and chemical, almost clean compared to everything else in this place. The cans thud onto the tile one by one.

Lyla counts from the stairs, eyes narrowed. “Keep going.”

The man pauses.

Carlos lifts the walkie.

The man adds another can.

I stand between Russ’s body and Clair, staring at the man who tried to turn my family into entertainment.

Bryant doesn’t blink, but a muscle in his cheek jumps.

Then Poppy’s hand slips into mine.

Her small fingers curl around my bloody ones without hesitation, and the touch goes straight through me. My gaze pulls away from the fuel exchange and lands on her hazel eyes.

Her chin dents. Her lashes shine. She blinks too fast and grips my bloody fingers harder.

My brave girl.

“You came,” she whispers. “Mom told me you’d always come for us.”