I shut down that line of thinking before it can complete itself.
"Your success serves the show's interests," I say, aiming for neutral professionalism. "Drama is more effective when contestants demonstrate genuine skill."
It's a deflection, and we both know it. But Trinity nods anyway, accepting the fiction that lets us both maintain appropriate distance.
"Well," she says, gathering her tools with the same efficiency she'd brought to the entire challenge. "I should probably get to interviews. Magazine features don't create themselves."
She pauses at the edge of her station, then looks back at me with an expression I can't quite interpret.
"Good luck with whatever your strategy is, Korgan. I hope it works out the way you want."
Then she's gone, leaving me alone among the wreckage of forty cooking stations and the uncomfortable realization that my strategy, whatever it originally was, has developed complications I'm not prepared to address.
Weakness,my father's voice reminds me.
Maybe. But watching Trinity succeed through skill and determination hadn't felt weak. It had felt like witnessing something rare and valuable, something worth protecting.
Dangerous thinking for someone who's supposed to remain detached.
Extremely dangerous.
I should probably be more concerned about that than I am.
The interview tent reeks of artificial vanilla and desperation. Producers have crammed forty folding chairs into a space meant for twenty, creating an intimacy that breeds exactly the kind of gossip they're hoping to capture. I position myself near the back corner, close enough to monitor conversations but far enough to avoid becoming part of them.
Information gathering,I tell myself.Know your enemies' weaknesses.
But my attention keeps drifting to Trinity, who's fielding questions about her victory with the same easy confidence she'd shown in the kitchen. Her hands move as she talks, sketchingshapes in the air to describe flavor profiles, and something about the gesture reminds me of tactical briefings where commanders would map battlefield positions.
Stop making everything about war,I command myself.She's a baker, not a general.
Though the way she'd assessed her competition during the challenge suggested strategic thinking that wouldn't be out of place in either arena.
"Quite the performance today."
The voice beside me belongs to Jonathan, one of the human contestants who'd barely managed a serviceable crème brûlée. His tone carries the particular kind of false friendliness that usually precedes an ambush.
I grunt acknowledgment without turning my head. Experience has taught me that engaging with obvious provocateurs rarely ends well.
"Must be nice," Jonathan continues, "having natural advantages."
Now he has my attention. I shift slightly, not enough to appear aggressive, but enough to remind him of the size difference between us.
"Advantages?"
"Come on." Jonathan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Everyone knows orcs have enhanced senses. Taste, smell, the whole package. Basically cheating when it comes to cooking competitions."
The accusation hits like a badly aimed spear, clumsy, but potentially damaging if I respond incorrectly. Enhanced senses. As if my ability to detect subtle flavor variations gives me some unfair edge in a contest where I'm not even competing.
Strategic patience,I remind myself.Don't take obvious bait.
"I'm not competing," I point out reasonably. "I'm observing."
"Sure you are." Jonathan's voice carries just enough to reach nearby ears. "But you were awfully quick to help that baker when her little friend needed rescuing. Lot of coaching for someone who's supposed to stay neutral."
Several conversations pause. I can feel attention shifting our direction, cameras probably already adjusting angles to capture whatever drama Jonathan thinks he's creating.
"Lane needed assistance," I say carefully. "Providing it prevented injury and property damage."
