Page 85

We move together down the corridor. My steps are uneven, favoring one leg. Every part of me burns—my ribs throb with each breath, my wrist is sprained if not broken, and blood crusts in my nose, my mouth, the corner of one eye that won’t open fully. My shirt sticks to my side where the glass sliced deep, bandages already blooming red beneath the fabric.

Guards line the hall. Most avert their eyes, like my gaze might brand them. But not all. Two near the end murmur as we pass.

“Why her?” one says, low but not low enough.

“The pit’s supposed to be punishment, not a science show,” the other replies.

Lance hears it too. His hand presses harder to my elbow, possessive without thinking.

I keep walking. If I stop, I’ll break.

In Medical, the fluorescents are too bright, too sterile. I blink against the glare as the med techs descend with gloves and swabs and too many questions. The antiseptic scorches my skin. The needle to the shoulder—two injections, maybe sedatives or antivirals—sinks deep.

One of them hums while stitching my forehead. Another takes a vitals reading with a cheap scanner that whines like it’s about to die.

“She’s fine,” one tech says to the other. “No concussion. No neural bleed. Just a lot of old-fashioned rage.”

They both chuckle, like I’m a case study instead of a person.

I sit there, wrapped in gauze and silence, barely hearing them as I stare at my reflection in the glass tray—split lip, puffy eye, blood caked in my hair. I look like something pulled from a wreck. And somehow, I won.

The door creaks. Lance leans in, arms crossed.

“You ready?”

“Always,” I say, even though it’s not true.

He walks me back slow, still guiding me like I might tip over. Most of the block is quiet now, lights dimmed, the others pretending not to watch as we pass. But I feel their eyes on my back—wide, uncertain, wondering if they’re looking at salvation or an omen.

Stitch is waiting outside my cell, propped against the wall like she’s been there for hours. Her nose is bandaged, and a new shiner blooms along her jaw.

When she sees me, she lets out a low whistle. “Medical bay, huh? Must be nice.”

I blink, confused.

She grins, wicked. “Most of us just get tossed a rag and a bottle of iodine. But you? Princess treatment.”

I almost laugh, but my ribs protest too hard. “They probably just wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to melt the next pit fighter’s face off.”

Stitch shrugs. “You’re a legend now. That doesn’t come with a first-aid kit.”

Her words hang heavy. I nod once, too tired for more. She claps me on the back and heads off.

I step inside my cell and sit slowly on the edge of the cot. The pain is everywhere now that the adrenaline’s gone. My hands still tremble, blood under my nails. I lie back and stare up at the ceiling.

There are new cracks now—fractures running like veins through concrete. Like something inside the prison is shifting, just beneath the surface.

I think about the pit. About Kang’s hands on my face. About the way the crowd chanted my name like it was a prophecy or a curse.

I wonder what I’ll do with these hands next.

I close my eyes.

The sound of my breathing fills the room.

It’s loud.

It’s alive.