We stand frozen under our respective showerheads, steam rising between us like ghosts. Our eyes find each other across the tiled space. The water keeps falling, but neither of us moves to turn it off.
I’ve spent the last few weeks trying not to do the math. The math where I calculate the odds of not having to kill either Cas or Marco. With only eight fighters left, we’re facing four brutal rounds of elimination. One against one, until there’s nothing left but blood and silence.
My throat closes.
“Robin.” Cas’s voice is barely a whisper.
I can’t answer. Can’t move. The hot water beats against my shoulders, but I’m cold everywhere else.
We grab towels without speaking. The dining room calls to us like a funeral march.
The moment we enter, the silence hits like a physical wall. Six pairs of eyes turn toward us. Six faces that know something we don’t. Jason’s mouth curves into that familiar smirk, and my stomach drops to my feet. Am I fighting him?
I scan the room fruitlessly for Marco.
He’s going to lose his mind when he finds out they posted the fixtures without him here.
The others part like water, creating a clear path to the wall where a single sheet of paper hangs. White against gray stone. Black ink that might as well be blood.
My legs move without permission. Cas walks beside me, his breathing shallow.
The paper grows larger as we approach. Roman numerals dance before my eyes.
I. Caspian vs. René
II. Marco vs. Robin
III. Jason vs. Harlan
IV. Max vs. Mikhail
The world tilts.
The words on the paper blur together, then snap back into focus with brutal clarity.
Marco vs. Robin
No.
This can’t be happening. Not after everything. Not after the nights spent in his arms, the promises whispered in our mother tongue, the way he looks at me like I’m something worth saving.
Six pairs of eyes burn into my back. I can feel their stares like brands against my skin. I know I shouldn’t react. Can’t react. Not here, not in front of them.
But my hands are shaking.
“But… why isn’t Marco last?” René’s voice cuts through the silence.
Max snorts. “Maybe it’s a lead-up to me being named captain.”
René laughs. “Dream on.”
Their voices scrape against my skull. My vision tunnels. The paper swims before my eyes, but those three words remain burned into my retinas. Marco vs. Robin. Marco vs. Robin. Marco vs.—
A hand clamps around my wrist. Cas. His fingers dig into my pulse point, anchoring me to something real.
“Come on,” he whispers.
I don’t remember walking. Don’t remember crossing the dining room or navigating the corridors. One moment I’m staring at that damn paper, the next I’m stumbling through the doorway of our cell.
