“You weren’t moving,” Odette fires back.
“I was thinking!”
“That’ll be a first,” Petal mutters. Bless her tiny pink heart.
Then Dahlia unleashes the whine again—pitiful, tremulous, calculated. “Thayer… can’t you just tell them I should go last? You know how easily I bruise.”
I can hear the cameras tightening in on her.
But Thayer ignores all of it. “Order is whatever works best for the team,” he says plainly. “Ren’s gone first. Decide the rest based on who can move quickest through what’s left.”
A beat.
Then Petal chimes in, cheerful and firm, “I should go next. I’m smallest and can fit through more of those gaps. Then Joanie with her long arms. Then Odette. And Deirdre last.”
The omega sputters, even though she got exactly what she wanted. “But—”
“Settle it,” Thayer says gently, “because Ren’s almost done.”
I am. My fingers close around the handle of the chest, cool and solid. Triumph sparks in my chest.
“Got it!” I call, hefting it into my arms. It’s not heavy in the slightest, but it will be awkward to carry while dodging ropes.
A cheer—Petal’s, definitely—goes up behind me.
I turn, chest tucked against my ribs, and begin threading my way back. It’s trickier this direction, the angles sharper, my knee more annoyed with me than before. The ropes seem closer, tighter, deliberately positioned to catch ankles or shoulders.
But Thayer steps into my line of sight, crouching low, eyes sharp, voice pitched just for me.
“Slow breaths,” he murmurs. “You’re doing perfectly, Ren. Don’t rush.”
I follow his words like a line of music.
It’s almost familiar. The steps to a dance I’ve perfected, until my muscles move by memory alone.
Breathe.
Twist.
Step.
Duck.
Lift the chest through a triangle of rope without letting it brush any side.
I pass the chest to Petal’s waiting hands through a gap she’s positioned herself under. She beams at me, pink hair sticking to her cheek.
“You killed that,” she whispers with a beaming smile.
I grin back. “Thanks.”
Behind her, Joanie mutters, “Well now I look like the slow one.”
Odette sighs dramatically. “Some people are just built for these kinds of tasks.”
Deirdre makes a tiny, wounded noise at the dig.
And Thayer—still watching me, still steady—says quietly, almost too quiet for the cameras, “Good work, killer.”
