I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and make a decision. This isn’t Snow’s arena. This isn’t Nightshade’s. This is mine.
“Hatchet,” I say, voice low, controlled. Not commanding. Informational. “You’re burning through reserves.” Hatchet’s eyes snap to me, sharp and furious. If looks were force, I’d be on the floor. I don’t flinch. “Hands shaking means your blood sugar’s crashing,” I continue. “You keep fighting the cuffs, you’ll black out.”
A beat.
Then a sharp exhale through his nose. He knows I’m right. That might be the most dangerous thing I could have given him – confirmation.
“Stop moving,” I add. “Not forever. Just now.” Silence stretches. Hatchet’s shoulders drop a fraction. Just enough. The chain goes still.
Good.
Honey looks at me like I’ve performed a magic trick. I don’t meet his eyes. Because now I have to look at Ghost.
Ghost is staring at Hatchet with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His lips are moving again, silently. When his gaze flicks to me, I see something fracture behind his eyes.
“Ghost,” I say carefully. “You with us?” The question is a risk. If I pull the wrong thread, he unravels faster.
For a moment, nothing. Then: “Which one?” he whispers.
Honey stiffens. Snow’s posture changes subtly, attention sharpening. I keep my voice even. “Either. All. Up to you.”
Ghost laughs. It’s a thin, broken sound. “He doesn’t like this,” he says, and I don’t know who he is. “He’s getting quiet.”
That’s worse than screaming.
I glance at Snow. He’s watching Ghost now, very still, very alert.
“We need water,” Honey says suddenly, voice cracking. “We can’t – we can’t keep doing this without?—”
He stops himself, but the thought hangs in the air. We need. Collective language. Unintentional. Dangerous.
The room feels tighter.
I know what they’re waiting for: a demand. A plea. An argument over allocation that doesn’t exist yet.
I won’t give it to them.
“Sit,” I tell Honey gently. “You’re wasting energy.”
He hesitates, then obeys, shame flashing across his face like he’s failed some moral test. That reaction tells me hunger is already chewing through his self-concept.
I don’t like how fast this is happening.
I reassess. Ribs: tolerable. Spine: manageable. Hand: worsening but functional. Cognitive clarity: slipping at the edges. Group stability: fragile.
If this continues another unknown number of hours, we lose Hatchet first – metabolic crash or restraint injury. Ghost could dissociate completely. Honey will sacrifice himself into dehydration. Snow will keep calculating until his numbers betray him again.
This is not a test of endurance. It’s a test of coordination under degradation. They want to see who we prioritise.
I exhale slowly and make another choice.
“We need to reduce variables,” I say quietly, pitching my voice so only the group hears. “No one moves unless they have to. No talking unless it’s necessary.”
Hatchet snorts softly. A humourless sound. Ghost tilts his head, listening. Snow’s eyes meet mine. He nods once. Honey bites his lip, then nods too.
That’s something. It’s not unity. But it’s alignment.
The room doesn’t respond. No punishment. No reward.
