He goes still.
Unconscious.
Not dead.
Because we’re better than he is.
Rhea staggers to the broadcast station, dragging cords, jacking into the emergency feed line.
I step beside her.
She looks at me, eyes wild.
I nod.
She hits the comm.
“This is Rhea Hart,” she says, voice shaking but strong. “This is what freedom costs.”
She glances at me.
“And what love survives.”
The crowd erupts.
Not in panic.
In hope.
They chant our names—mine and hers—over and over, until the sound shakes the walls.
I reach for her hand.
And in the ashes of our enemies, we stand together.
They sayhistory gets written by the victors. That’s true. But the part they leave out—the part nobody warns you about—is that after the battle, after the blood and the reckoning, somebody still has to clean up the mess.
I’m sitting in a sterile conference room. White walls. No windows. The kind of room designed to make you forget time exists.
Opposite me sits a man in a suit so sharp it could slit throats. Arena Council liaison. Combine survivor. Bureaucrat in the cleanest war there is—the one fought over data, rights, narratives.
“We’re prepared to offer you full amnesty,” he says, folding his hands like this isn’t a pitch meeting. “Record expunged. Past affiliations deleted. You walk out clean.”
“And?”
“A permanent contract. Gladiator Prime wants to rebuild. You’d be our foundation. You’d never want for anything.”
I lean back, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him squirm. He doesn’t. He’s too polished for that.
Finally, I say, “No.”
His brow twitches. “May I ask why?”
“Because I’m done being someone else’s weapon.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue. I stand before he can.
“Keep your clean slate,” I growl. “I’d rather have a dirty one I own.”
