043 — ELOWEN BRADSHAW:
TACTICIAN
I read the word three times before it begins to feel real.
Tactician.
The letter shakes in my hand. I blame the cold and the fact that I haven't eaten since last night. It's easier than admitting I'm nervous about what's written on the page.
That is only partly true.
I know what a tactician is supposed to do. Study the situation, figure out the risks, and decide which move gives you the best chance of making it out alive. You don't have to be the strongest in the room. You just have to know what you're dealing with before everyone else does.
I've been doing that for years without realizing it. Knowing which streets to avoid when the enforcers patrol the Sinks. Figuring out when a shopkeeper is about to chase me off before I can ask for scraps. Deciding whether a rabbit is worth chasing when the sun is going down and I still have to get home.
Nobody ever called that a skill. It was just how I got by.
I look at the results again, half expecting to find some explanation for why they've put me in this class. There's nothing else on the page. Just my number, my name, and a single word beside them.
Tactician.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. Before I can answer, someone tries the handle.
"Red? You awake?"
Weaver.
"I'm awake," I reply.
The door opens, and Clay steps inside with Gevan and Weaver behind him. All three look as though they've been awake for hours. Weaver, in particular, appears personally offended by the existence of mornings.
Clay notices the letter in my hand.
"You got yours?"
I nod.
"What did you get?"
I show him the letter clasped on my hand.
His eyebrows lift. "Really?"
"Unless they've mistaken me for someone else."
"No, I just..." He pauses, looking at the paper again. "That actually makes sense."
"Thank you for your overwhelming enthusiasm."
"I'm being serious."
Gevan moves closer, adjusting his glasses. "Tactician is an interesting assignment. It suggests they believe your strongest contribution is analytical rather than physical."
"Or they think I'm good at solving puzzles," I say.
"That's essentially what I said."
"No. You made it sound like I belong behind a desk."
Weaver leans against the wall, looking between us. "Personally, I'd be delighted to belong behind a desk. Preferably one with a drawer full of food."
Clay holds up his own letter. "Lifeline."
"That suits you," I say.
He glances at me. "You think so?"
"You've always been the one making sure everyone else is still standing."
Something changes in his expression, so quickly that I almost miss it. Then he folds his letter and slips it into his pocket.
Gevan announces that he's been assigned Fighter. Which is weird because personally, he seems afraid of almost anything. Weaver gets Scout, which prompts him to declare that the assessment staff have finally recognized his natural talent for avoiding responsibility. We don't know whether to laugh or worry.
The four of us stand there, looking at one another, our newly assigned classes sitting between us like another set of rules we haven't learned to follow.
Outside the window, the morning light has begun to reach the buildings surrounding the Core. Somewhere beyond these walls, the island of Blackwake waits for us.
A week ago, I couldn't have imagined being here.
Now I'm supposed to figure out how to survive it.
***
Linus calls us to the meeting room shortly after breakfast.
He's already waiting when we arrive, standing beside a long table with several folders arranged in front of him. A screen covers most of the wall behind him. When the door shuts, he gestures for us to sit.
"I've reviewed your assessment results," he begins. "Your classes give us a useful starting point, but don't mistake them for fixed limits. Being designated a Fighter doesn't mean Gevan is the only one who can defend himself. Being a Lifeline doesn't mean Clay should be responsible for keeping every one of you safe."
"That's a relief," Clay says. "I was worried there'd be paperwork."
"There will probably be paperwork."
Weaver sighs. "I knew there was a catch."
Linus almost smiles.
"Your assignments tell us where you may have an advantage. What matters is how you use those advantages together."
He taps the screen. A map of Blackwake appears, divided into distinct territories. Even without the labels, I recognize the contrast between the dense green of the forest region, the ghost town, the pastel land, and the pale expanses of the snow-covered territory.
I lean forward.
"How much of this map are we allowed to study before deployment?" Gevan asks.
"All the information provided to your team."
"That wasn't quite what I asked."
Linus says calmly. "It wasn't."
Gevan's mouth tightens, but he doesn't push the point.
Linus changes the display. Four squares appear, each marked with our participant numbers.
"Your first priority is to understand that individual ability will only take you so far. Once you're on Blackwake, you'll be competing against ninety-six other hunters. Some will cooperate. Others will see cooperation as an opportunity to get close enough to eliminate you."
"Comforting," Weaver mutters.
"That's why we need to discuss alliances," Linus says.
The word settles over the table.
I glance at the other three. Clay looks attentive. Gevan has already started thinking through the implications. Weaver is spinning a pen between his fingers, though his eyes remain on Linus.
"Your team cannot afford to treat every other quadrangle as an enemy from the beginning," Linus continues. "You need information, and information requires contact. Talk to the other players. Observe how they behave when they aren't being tested. Find out which teams might be willing to cooperate and which ones you'd be better off avoiding."
"Especially the reserves," Clay says.
Linus nods. "Especially the reserves."
Participants 001 through 020 haven't been assigned to the main quadrangles. They're reserves, but that doesn't make them irrelevant. If anything, their position makes them harder to read. We know the rules given to us. We don't know what the game makers expect from them, or what opportunities might come with their status.
"An alliance isn't a promise of friendship," Linus says. "It's an agreement that serves a purpose. The moment that purpose disappears, the agreement may disappear with it."
"Then what's the point?" I ask.
He looks at me.
"Because two people with a common interest can survive situations neither could manage alone."
"And once the interest changes?"
"You decide whether the risk of staying together is greater than the risk of separating."
I look back at the map.
That sounds less like an alliance and more like a debt that hasn't come due yet. Still, he's right. Refusing to cooperate with anyone would be foolish. A person can watch their back for only so long before exhaustion catches up with them. Even the most capable fighter has to sleep sometime.
We need allies. We also need to know when to leave them behind.
Linus sets down the remote. "There's another matter. Over the next few days, you'll undergo individual tests. These will assess your strength, agility, and intelligence under controlled conditions."
He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing.
"The results will determine the frontrunners of the Hunt. But there's another reason you should take these tests seriously. People will be placing bets on the participants before the game actually begins."
"Bets?" Gevan asks, his expression tightening.
"Spectators will have their favorites," Linus explains. "Some will bet on whoever they believe has the best chance of winning. Others will support players they find interesting or want to see succeed. Your performance during these tests will influence those decisions. And these spectators are primary sponsors of the event, alongside the Government and the Triumvirate."
I glance at the others. Until now, I've thought of the assessments as a way for the game makers to measure our abilities. I hadn't considered that we were being evaluated by people who might never set foot on Blackwake.
"And the money goes to the winner?" Clay asks.
"Not necessarily. Depending on the arrangements, those who attract enough interest may receive additional support from their backers, both during the Hunt and after it ends. What that support entails will vary."
I lean back in my chair, turning the information over in my mind.
So we're not only competing to win. We're being watched, judged, and weighed against one another before we've even reached the island. Perform well, and someone might decide we're worth investing in. Fail to impress, and we could be forgotten before the game begins.
"What kind of support?" I ask.
"Supplies, resources, or other assistance, depending on what's permitted and what the backer is willing to provide."
Linus folds his hands on the table. "That's why these tests matter. Your results won't just tell us where your strengths lie. They'll shape how the spectators see you––and whether anyone decides to back your team."
I glance at the map of Blackwake on the screen.
"Also... another assessment?" Weaver asks. "Do they get a discount if we complete enough of them?"
"They'll determine who performs best in each category. Like what I said, the results will identify the frontrunners."
I picture names appearing on a screen, rankings displayed for everyone to see. I imagine the players who finish at the top becoming targets before they even reach Blackwake.
"Will the results be public?" I ask.
"Some information may be made available to participants."
"Which information?"
"That hasn't been confirmed."
Clay gives a quiet, humorless laugh. "Convenient."
But Linus ignores the remark.
"Don't assume that placing first in a test makes someone the most dangerous player. Strength can be measured. Judgment is harder to quantify. The same goes for intelligence. Someone may perform exceptionally well under observation and make terrible decisions when their life is at stake."
I think about that.
"There's one final thing," Linus says. "Your team needs a de facto leader."
"No." Gevan answers so quickly that Weaver nearly drops his pen.
Linus turns toward him. "No?"
"We've known one another for barely a week. Choosing a leader because the rules say we need one doesn't make that person qualified."
"Someone will make decisions whether you formally recognize them or not," Linus says.
"Then we can make decisions together," Weaver interjects.
"And what happens when you disagree?" Linus asks. "When two of you want to move and the other two want to stay? When there's no time to discuss every possibility?"
Gevan falls silent. Weaver raises a hand.
"I volunteer to do the spying."
"No one asked you to spy," Clay says.
"Fine. Reconnaissance. Information gathering. Whatever makes it sound less illegal."
"And the leading?" Linus asks.
Weaver puts his hand down. "I'd rather not be responsible for three people getting disqualified. Four, if you count myself."
"That's surprisingly self-aware," Gevan tells him.
Clay has been quiet throughout the discussion. He's looking at the map, though I suspect he isn't really seeing it.
I've seen that look on Clay before. The Sinks had barely recovered from the last catastrophe when our neighborhood fell into chaos. People poured into the streets, arguing over where to go and what they could still save. Some stood around waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Others panicked and got in everyone's way. Clay didn't wait for either.
Clay didn't waste time. He got the younger kids away from the damaged buildings, sent people to look for clean water, and got two men to stop arguing long enough to help carry supplies. When a boy refused to leave without his mother, Clay stayed with him and helped search until they found her.
He wasn't the strongest among them, and he certainly wasn't the loudest. He just seemed to know what needed doing, even when everyone else was too caught up in the chaos to think straight.
I remember watching him that day, wondering how someone my age could keep his head when grown adults couldn't.
I haven't forgotten it since.
"Clay," I say.
Three faces turn toward me.
Clay looks as if I've just announced that I'm volunteering him for execution.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Elowen, I don't—"
"You've done it before."
His eyebrows draw together. "Done what?"
"Made decisions when everyone else was too busy panicking to think. You knew where people needed to go. You knew who needed help and what could wait. You didn't waste time trying to make yourself look important."
"That was different," he says.
"How?"
"Because it wasn't this." He gestures at the map, at the folders, at the entire absurd situation we've found ourselves in.
"No one was trying to win a million and a half credas back then," he says.
"No. They were trying to win and fight."
The room goes quiet. And I hold his gaze.
"That's what we're trying to do now."
Clay looks away, and I start wondering if I've made a mistake. He's been there for me for as long as I can remember, even when I gave him every reason to walk away. I don't want to repay that by handing him a responsibility he never asked for.
But I've seen what happens when nobody steps up.
I remember neighbors fighting over a sack of rice while dark clouds gathered overhead. I remember people leaving others behind because they assumed someone else would help. In the Sinks, you can't afford to wait for the right person to come along. Sometimes, someone just has to act.
Clay turns back to me.
"You really think I can do it?" he asks in a low voice.
"I think you'll try to do what's right for the team," I say.
"That isn't the same thing as being a good leader."
"You're right," I admit. "But it's a better place to start than wanting everyone to obey you."
Weaver points his pen at me. "I would like the record to show that I also possess several leadership qualities."
"Name one," Gevan says.
"I can identify when morale is low."
"By making jokes?"
"It's a gift," Weaver proudly says.
Linus watches Clay for a moment before speaking.
"Would you be willing to take the role?"
Clay hesitates.
I can almost see him counting the ways this could go wrong. The possibility that one bad decision could cost us the credas.
Then he looks at me.
I don't nod. I don't try to reassure him with some promise I can't keep. I simply let him decide.
After a moment, Clay straightens in his chair.
"All right," he says. "I'll do it."
Linus nods once. "Then we have a starting point."
"A starting point," Gevan repeats. "Not a guarantee that this is the best arrangement."
"Of course not," Clay says. "And if you think I'm making a bad call, tell me. I'm not going to pretend I know everything."
"Good," I say.
He shoots me a look. "You could at least pretend to be nervous about this."
"I am nervous."
"You don't look nervous."
"That's because I'm saving it for later."
Weaver rises and stretches his arms above his head.
"I was going to withdraw from the games," he announces, "but then I discovered there's free food during training. So I've decided to remain available to the team."
Gevan stares at him. "You complained about the food yesterday and ate three portions."
"Four, actually. And I stand by my decision."
Even Linus lets out a brief laugh. For a moment, the room feels almost ordinary. Four friends arguing over a decision none of us is prepared to make, as if we're planning a trip rather than preparing for a game that might disqualify us.
I want to hold on to that feeling. I know better than to expect it to last.
***
The meeting ends shortly before noon.
Gevan leaves first, still muttering about the lack of transparency surrounding the individual tests. Weaver follows him, apparently determined to convince him that reconnaissance would be more useful if conducted near the dining hall.
Clay pauses at the door.
"You sure about this, Elowen?"
"About what?"
"Me leading."
I study him.
"Would you rather I said someone else?"
Clay was silent.
"Then stop asking questions you don't want answered," I say.
He shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face.
"You're impossible."
"I know," I say.
He leaves, and I'm about to follow when Linus calls my name.
"Elowen. Could you stay a moment?"
I stop beside the door.
"Why?"
"I'd like to discuss your results."
That gets my attention.
I return to the table as Linus gathers the folders into a neat stack.
"There's something you should know about your assessment," he says.
I pull out a chair. "Did I do that badly?"
"No. Quite the opposite."
He tells me I scored the highest on the intellectual assessment.
I stare at him, waiting for the rest. There were plenty of questions I had to work through twice, and a few I wasn't entirely sure about. I remember guessing on at least one numerical sequence. Whatever score I got, I hadn't expected it to be anything worth discussing.
"You did particularly well in pattern recognition, deduction, and numerical reasoning," he adds.
I glance at the folders on the table, then back at him.
"Are you sure you have the right person?" I ask.
Linus gives me a faint smile. "I'm sure, 043. Elowen Bradshaw."
I wait for him to explain why that matters.
"The margin wasn't small," he continues.
"I've always been good at noticing things," I say, jokingly.
"That much is clear," Linus replies.
"Does that mean I should be doing something differently?"
"It means we should use your strengths. Clay can coordinate the team, but that doesn't mean every decision has to come from him. You'll be valuable when it comes to assessing risks, identifying patterns, and deciding whether a proposed course of action makes sense."
"So I'm supposed to tell him when he's wrong?"
"When necessary." Linus sips his coffee.
"And if he doesn't listen?"
"Then you'll have to convince him."
I fold my arms. "You're making this sound remarkably simple."
For the first time since the meeting began, his expression changes. It's subtle, but I notice the tension around his eyes.
There's something else he wants to say. Something he hasn't decided whether he should.
"Is there something you're not telling us?" I ask.
Linus looks at me for a long moment.
"You're do damn good at reading people, Elowen," he says. "But there's a great deal about the Hunt that I don't know."
I wait.
He glances toward the closed door, then back at me. Whatever he considers saying, he seems to reconsider it.
"Your results give your team an advantage. Don't underestimate that," he says.
"An advantage over the other players?"
"An advantage in making decisions before the situation becomes desperate."
I study his face, searching for some sign that he's lying. I find only a man who appears to be choosing his words very carefully.
"Linus."
"Elowen."
"What aren't you telling me?"
His jaw shifts.
"Promise me something first."
I almost laugh. "You want me to make a promise before you'll answer my question?"
"I want you to take your position seriously. All of you do. But you, especially, need to understand that the decisions you make could affect more than your own fate."
I think of Clay accepting the role of leader. Of Gevan questioning every rule. Of Weaver making jokes because silence would force him to acknowledge how frightened we all are.
Then I think of Aunt Evelyn. Her hospital room, with its pale walls and the machines that keep her going. Sometimes, when I visit, she looks at me like she has no idea who I am. Like I'm just someone who wandered into her room by mistake.
I know what my decisions could cost. I've known since I signed the contract.
"What do you want me to promise?" I ask.
Linus meets my eyes.
"That you'll do everything you can to win."
The words should be easy. Instead, they catch somewhere in my throat.
The prize could pay for Aunt Evelyn's treatment. It could give her a real chance instead of leaving me to watch her get worse with nothing I can do. Without it, I don't know how much time we have left. But to win, I'll have to rely on people I barely know, in a game where trusting the wrong person could get me in trouble.
It means accepting that not everyone will make it to the end.
I look at the map on the wall. Then I think of the alternative.
"I promise," I say.
Linus studies me, as though trying to determine whether I understand what I've agreed to.
"Good."
I leave before he can ask me to promise anything else.
***
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. The digital clock changes from 11:48 to 12:03. Somewhere behind the wall, the ventilation system hums steadily, filling the silence. I turn onto my side, pull the blanket higher, then kick it away a moment later.
Something about the Hunt bothers me. I just can't figure out what. I've spent most of my life learning to recognize trouble before it reaches me. In the Sinks, overlooking the little things can cost you. A stranger asking too many questions. An enforcer lingering outside a shop. Someone offering you food when they have barely enough for themselves. You learn to pay attention because you can't afford to be wrong.
But here, I have nothing solid to work with. Just a feeling that I've missed something.
Maybe it's Lady Thorne's explanation of the rules. Maybe it's the way Linus answers our questions without ever telling us more than we need to know. Or maybe I'm looking for a problem because admitting I'm scared would be easier if I had something to blame it on.
I roll onto my back again.
The Hunt offers money, supplies, and a chance to leave the life we were born into. The game makers have taken everything people like me struggle for and turned it into a prize. All we have to do is survive long enough to claim it. It's a tempting offer when you've spent your whole life with nothing.
I signed the contract. I agreed to the rules. Whatever happens next, I can't pretend I didn't choose this.
Still, I wonder how much of that choice was real.
I close my eyes, but Aunt Evelyn comes to mind.
The last time I visited her, she spent several minutes trying to remember why I was there. Who I was. I held her hand and waited, pretending not to notice how frightened she looked when she realized she'd forgotten something important again. When she finally remembered me, she apologized.
I told her she had nothing to apologize for. I meant it. I just wish I could have done more than sit beside her and pretend everything was fine.
She's the only family I have left. If I lose her, there won't be anyone waiting for me when I get back. No one who remembers my father the way I do. No one who can tell me whether I've turned out anything like the person he wanted me to become.
Tomorrow, we'll be expected to train together, study one another, and decide who we can trust. We're supposed to build alliances with people whose names we barely know, all while preparing to enter a game designed to turn survival into a spectacle.
I pull the blanket over my head. This is going to be a problem.
A few minutes later, I give up trying to sleep.
Then I hear footsteps outside. They move slowly along the corridor, unhurried enough that whoever they belong to doesn't seem worried about being caught out of bed.
I listen as they pass my door. I should stay where I am. Linus has already made it clear that wandering around at night is a bad idea, and I have no particular desire to explain myself to a staff member. But the footsteps stop before I can talk myself out of looking.
I get out of bed, pull on a jacket, and ease the door open. The corridor is empty except for a figure standing near the tall window at the far end.
I recognize him even from behind. The black hair, the broad shoulders, the way he stands with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the night as though there's somewhere else he'd rather be.
He turns at the sound of my door. For a second, I forget why I've come out.
He's attractive. That's the first thing I notice, which is inconvenient, considering the circumstances. The second is that he looks just as uninterested in the world as he did during the gathering. Then his dark eyes settle on me.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
I glance down the corridor. It's late, I'm standing outside my room in my pajamas and jacket, and I'm questioning a stranger who looks like he'd rather be left alone.
Excellent judgment, Elowen.
"I heard someone walking," I explain.
"Go back to your room."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"It's nighttime."
"I'm aware."
"Then you know where you should be," he says.
I stare at him, waiting for the punch line. There isn't one.
"I'm not tired," I say.
"That's unfortunate." He chuckles.
"Do you always talk to people like that?"
"Only when they keep asking questions," he says, calmly.
"Then we're going to get along terribly," I say.
Something shifts in his expression. It's brief, barely there, but I think he might be amused.
I fold my arms. "Why are you in the Hunt?"
He looks back out the window. For a moment, I think he's going to ignore me. I almost wish he would. It would give me an excuse to leave without feeling as though I've failed to get an answer.
"That's complicated," he says.
"How?"
"You have a lot of questions," he says.
"You have a lot of answers you're not giving me," I say.
"Maybe there's a reason for that."
"Maybe you could tell me."
He turns to face me again.
I should leave it alone. There's no reason to get involved with someone I know nothing about, especially someone who seems determined to make every conversation unpleasant. But I've never been good at leaving things alone when they don't make sense.
"Did you volunteer?" I ask.
Something changes in his face. It's subtle enough that someone else might miss it, but I don't.
"No."
The answer surprises me.
"Then why are you here?"
"My father made the decision."
I wait. When he doesn't continue, I ask, "Your father?"
"Yeah," he says. "He commands the Spires' enforcers."
I know who he means. Everyone in the Sinks does. General Arata commands the enforcers, and his name comes up often enough in government announcements that even people who've never seen him know who he is. He's one of the men responsible for keeping the Sinks in line. Most of us will never meet him, but we still live with the consequences of his decisions.
I look at him again.
"You're General Arata's son?"
"Unfortunately."
There's no bitterness in his voice that I can easily identify. If anything, he sounds bored by the fact.
"Your father has a lot of power."
"My father has whatever power the regime allows him to have."
"He's a general."
"That doesn't mean he built the system."
"Didn't he?"
He studies me for a moment, apparently deciding whether I'm worth answering.
"He stepped into a position left vacant by the people who came before him. His promotion came after his predecessor's sudden, convenient retirement."
He puts particular emphasis on the last two words.
"Convenient for whom?" I ask.
"That's the question."
I think about the official reports in the Sinks. They always make things sound so simple. People disappear, and the government records a relocation. Buildings collapse, and the report lists structural failure. A hundred people die in a flood, and their names become a set of numbers.
My father's death was reduced to a few lines. His identity was confirmed. His registry status was changed. His case was closed. The report never mentioned the rope cutting into his hands as he held on to save me. It didn't mention the platform giving way just as he tried to climb to safety.
I mean, it didn't have to. The government had all the information it considered necessary.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"You're the one who asked about my father."
True. But...
"That's not what I meant."
He lets out a quiet breath, running his fingers on his black hair.
I glance at the badge on his chest. His name is printed beneath his participant number.
KENRYU ARATA.
I hadn't noticed it before. Or perhaps I had and simply hadn't connected it to anything.
Kenryu catches me reading it.
"Now you know my name."
"It was printed on your badge," I say defensively.
"Should I be impressed?" he asks sarcastically.
"Wouldn't know."
I almost smile, but I stop myself. There's something about him that makes me want to keep asking questions, even when every answer seems to lead to another one.
"Did you sign the contract Lady Thorne gave us?"
His expression grows more serious.
"Why?"
"You said your father forced you to enter. I'm trying to understand how that works when everyone here supposedly agreed to the rules. And how you and that celebrity I saw the other day––both from the Spires––ended up in a game designed for people from the Sinks."
"You assume the contract means what they told you it means."
Before I can ask what he's getting at, he catches my wrist and pulls me toward a recessed corner beside the window.
I stiffen.
"Let go of me."
He releases me immediately.
"Fair."
The quick response catches me off guard. I rub my wrist anyway, more out of irritation than pain.
"Don't do that again."
His gaze shifts toward the ceiling.
"Keep your voice down," he says.
I follow his glance and notice the camera mounted above the nearest doorway. I'd seen it earlier, but I hadn't given it much thought. There are cameras throughout the Core. I assumed they were there to keep order. Now I wonder what else they're watching.
"This place is monitored," Kenryu says.
"No kidding."
"Every corridor. Every training room. Most of the common areas."
I look around. Once I start searching, the cameras become difficult to ignore. One above the doorway. Another at the intersection. A third near the elevators.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been looking." He nods toward the recess where we're standing.
"There are blind spots. Not many. This is one of them."
I lower my voice. "Why do you need a blind spot?"
"Because I have reasons to believe the Hunt isn't what they've told us."
I search his face for some sign that he's joking. There's nothing.
"That doesn't prove anything," I say.
"I didn't say it did."
"Then what are you saying?"
"That you should be careful about what you say here. The people running this place have more control over you than you seem to realize," he whispers.
I think of the contract. The rules. The cameras. And Linus, who always seems to know exactly how much information to give us and when to stop talking.
"What have you found?" I ask.
Kenryu hesitates before answering.
"I've taken documents. I've been looking into the Triumvirate and the people who run this place. Some of the records don't match the official accounts."
"What records?"
"I'm not explaining that here." Kenryu turns his back on me.
"Then where?"
His eyes narrow. "Do you ever stop asking questions?"
"Not when someone keeps telling me there's something I need to know."
This time, I'm certain I see the faintest hint of a smile. It vanishes when he looks at me more closely.
"Brumefall Heights."
My stomach tightens.
I haven't thought about that day in months, but the memory comes back as if it happened yesterday. The hillside at Brumefall Heights. The trees. The sound of a motorcycle breaking the silence. And Kenryu, crouched beneath the trees, digging at something I couldn't see.
"You were there," he says.
"And the hole you were digging," I add. "I was wondering what you were doing."
"Is that why you were watching me?" he asks.
"I wasn't watching you. I happened to see you."
"Of course." He lets out a short chuckle.
"Your motorcycle wasn't exactly subtle."
His mouth twitches.
"You're observant, huh," he compliments. Though I'm not sure if he's mocking me.
"It's a survival skill."
"I know."
The words make me pause.
"What does that mean?"
He glances toward the corridor.
"It means I recognize you, too."
A chill settles over my shoulders. I don't like the idea that he's been carrying the same memory around, even if he hasn't thought about it as often as I have.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Then why tell me any of this?"
"Because you're here now, and you need to understand that asking questions can have consequences."
"You're asking questions, too," I say.
"Which is why I'm telling you to keep this conversation to yourself."
Footsteps echo from the other end of the corridor.
I turn toward the sound, and a narrow beam of light sweeps across the wall. Someone is coming this way, moving slowly enough that I can hear the faint scuff of shoes against the floor.
My eyes dart toward the nearest doorway. Too far. The corridor offers little cover, and the recessed corner where we're standing won't be enough if the officer decides to look our way.
Then I glance down at my jacket. White. Of all the things I could have worn tonight, I had to choose the brightest piece of clothing I own.
Brilliant. Even Kenryu softly laughs at me.
The flashlight moves closer. Before I can think of somewhere to hide, Kenryu catches my arm and pulls me against him. I barely have time to react before his arms close around me, drawing me into the shadow of his body. My cheek presses against his chest, and one of his hands settles between my shoulder blades, keeping me close enough that my jacket is no longer exposed to the corridor.
I go completely still. For one ridiculous second, I forget about the officer.
Kenryu is warm. I can feel the solid rise and fall of his breathing beneath my cheek, and the fabric of his shirt is soft against my skin. His other arm rests around my shoulders, blocking the light that might otherwise catch the white of my jacket.
My heart gives a hard, unhelpful thud. What is he doing?
Then the flashlight sweeps across the wall beside us.
I press my lips together.
Right. Hiding. He's hiding me.
That should make the situation easier to understand. It doesn't do much for the way my heart is racing, or the fact that I'm suddenly aware of every inch of space between us––or the lack of it.
I can hear the officer's footsteps getting closer.
Kenryu lowers his head slightly. His mouth is near my ear when he whispers, "Don't make any noise."
As if I had any plans to.
I grip the front of his shirt, partly to steady myself and partly because I need something to do with my hands. His body blocks most of my view, leaving me with a narrow glimpse of the corridor beyond his shoulder.
The flashlight passes over the opposite wall. Its beam catches the edge of a door, slides across the floor, then climbs toward the ceiling. If the officer looks directly at us, there's no explaining why I'm pressed against another participant in the middle of the night. And if Kenryu is right about the cameras, getting caught here could mean more than an awkward conversation with security.
I don't know which possibility I dislike more.
The officer stops walking. My fingers tighten around Kenryu's shirt.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I can feel my pulse hammering against my ribs, and I'm almost certain he must be able to feel it, too.
"Anyone there?" the officer calls.
My stomach drops.
Kenryu doesn't answer. He doesn't even look toward the voice. His hand remains steady against my back, and he keeps his breathing slow, as though standing in a dark corridor with a patrol officer searching nearby is an ordinary part of his evening. I wish I had half his composure.
The officer takes another step.
The beam drifts toward our end of the corridor.
I tuck my face closer against Kenryu's chest before I can stop myself. His cologne lingers in the space between us, warm and woody, with a hint of spice beneath the clean scent of his shirt. I catch another breath of it before I realize how close I still am, and quickly pull back. I blame the stuffy corridor for the sudden warmth in my face.
This is absurd. I've faced hungry winters, enforcers, and criminals in our Zone. I've signed a contract to enter a game where people will be watching us to catch a person in red. And now I'm standing here, worried that a flashlight might catch my jacket while I'm being held by a boy.
My life has developed a strange sense of humor.
Kenryu's thumb shifts slightly against my back.
I need to stop thinking about that.
The flashlight lingers at the corner.
I close my eyes. Then the officer mutters something under his breath and continues down the hall.
The footsteps move away, growing fainter with each passing second. The beam disappears around the far intersection, leaving the corridor dim again.
I wait until the sound is almost gone before I let out the breath I've been holding.
Kenryu doesn't release me immediately. Then I remember that I'm still holding his shirt. I let go.
He loosens his arms, giving me room to step back.
"You're wearing white," he says quietly.
I stare at him.
"Thank you. I hadn't noticed."
His gaze drops briefly to my jacket.
"I was more concerned about being caught than coordinating my outfit."
"Could've fooled me," he says. Kenryu steps away from the wall, leaving enough space between us that I no longer feel boxed in. He waits for me to move first.
I pull my jacket closed and follow him toward the rooms, keeping my eyes on the corridor ahead.
My heart eventually settles. Mostly. But as we walk, I find myself wondering whether Kenryu's calm is something he's always had, or something he's learned the hard way.
"Don't tell your teammates about the stuff I told you. Don't repeat my name. And don't go looking for answers just because you think you've found a secret."
"Why should I trust you?"
"I'm not forcing you to." He says it without hesitation. I don't know what to do with that. Most people who want something from you at least pretend they're trustworthy.
Kenryu doesn't seem interested in convincing me of anything.
"You don't know me," he continues. "I don't know you. But if the people running this place think you're becoming a problem, they can make things difficult for you."
"How?"
"I don't know. That's the point."
The footsteps grow louder.
"Come on."
He reaches for my hand. I hesitate, then let him take it. We step back into the corridor and walk toward the rooms. Kenryu keeps his pace steady, making no effort to hurry. From a distance, we probably look like two participants who happened to cross paths on their way back to bed.
Two staff members appear around the corner. Kenryu releases my hand.
"Good night, Elowen," he say as he read the name on my shirt.
I stop walking. He continues down the corridor, hands back in his pockets, leaving me with more questions than I had when I came out of my room.
The staff members pass without looking twice at me. I wait until they're gone before turning toward the nearest camera.
And now I can't stop wondering what Kenryu knows.
~•~
By morning, I've managed barely an hour of sleep. I blame Kenryu at first. It's easier than admitting that what he said has given shape to a worry I couldn't explain the night before. The Core is monitored. The official records don't line up. The people running the Hunt may be keeping things from us. None of that proves he's telling the truth. But it doesn't mean he's lying, either.
At breakfast, Weaver complains about the coffee, and Gevan argues that the food is deliberately bland to keep us focused on training. Clay listens with the tired patience of someone who has already realized that being our leader will involve a lot of unnecessary conversations.
I barely hear them.
"El."
Clay nudges my arm.
I look up. "What?"
"You've been staring at your plate for five minutes."
"I'm thinking," I say.
"That's what worries me," Weaver says. "Usually, when you start thinking that hard, someone ends up regretting something."
"Eat your breakfast," I tell him.
"See? Terrifying."
I take another bite, mostly to stop him from asking questions.
I can't tell them about Kenryu. Not yet. If he's right about the cameras, even talking about our conversation could put us at risk. If he's wrong, there's no point in making my teammates suspicious over something I can't prove.
For now, I keep it to myself.
After breakfast, we head to the practice field. The space is already busy, with participants gathering at stations for weapons handling, strength, agility, and combat drills. Staff members move between the groups, checking equipment and recording results. Yesterday, we'd been tested in private, with our scores recorded behind closed doors. Today, there's nowhere to hide. Everyone can see who struggles, who excels, and who makes a point of showing off.
I try to focus on the demonstrations. Instead, I start watching the other hunters.
Participant 021 catches my attention first. She's standing beside a rack of practice weapons, her thick dreadlocks pulled away from her face. When the instructor asks the group to demonstrate their preferred grip, she reaches for a weapon with her left hand.
That alone doesn't mean much. Some people are left-handed. But she does it again at the next station. And the one after that. Every time she's given a choice, she reaches with her left. Her movements are quick and economical, and she never looks around to see who's watching.
I file that away.
Across the field, participant 001 works through a series of charging drills. He's that large man, his arms and neck covered in tattoos. He isn't the fastest compared to everyone, but he's scary. Before each charge, he shifts his weight onto his front foot. It's a small movement, easy to miss if you're watching the target instead of the person holding the weapon. He does it every time, though. Maybe it's a habit. Maybe it's how he generates momentum.
Either way, I want to remember it.
By the end of the session, I've gathered a handful of details that might mean something later. Who favors which hand. Who watches the instructors and who watches the other participants. Who rushes through a task to impress the staff and who takes a moment to understand it before beginning. Without meaning to, I've started sorting everyone into categories.
Potential threats.
Possible allies.
People I need to watch more closely.
"How long have you been doing that?" Gevan asks beside me.
I glance at him. "Doing what?"
"Watching everyone instead of the demonstrations."
He follows my gaze across the field, then looks back at me.
"That's exactly what I mean."
I don't answer. There's no point pretending I haven't been doing it.
Across the field, Kenryu turns away from an instructor and catches my eye. His expression gives nothing away. Neither does mine.
I look away first, forcing myself to pay attention to the training in front of me. Whatever he knows, I can't afford to get distracted by it. Not when the Hunt is still days away, and I have three teammates depending on me to notice things they might miss.
Still, as I watch the hunters spread across the field, one question keeps coming back. How many of them are hiding something? And how many secrets do the game makers already know?