I kick.
His knees buckle.
He gasps. Stumbles, loses his footing on the slick rock.
Falls.
I scramble up his back before he can recover. My knees dig into his spine, pinning him face down against the stone. My hands close around the Deathball’s handle, wrenching it from his weakened grip.
Now I have it. The weight of it in my hands, the power to end this nightmare.
All I have to do is bring it down.
Elijah isn’t fighting anymore. He’s gone completely still beneath me, his face pressed against the rock. Waiting.
I raise the Deathball above my head.
The arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people waiting to see which of us walks away.
Don’t hesitate.
I bring the Deathball down with everything I have.
The impact travels up my arms like a lightning strike. Metal against bone. The crowd erupts, but their cheers sound distant, muffled, like they’re coming from underwater.
I lift the weapon again.
Again.
My eyes squeeze shut, but I can still hear them chanting my name. “Robin! Robin! Robin!” Over and over, a rhythm that matches the rise and fall of my arms.
I can’t stop.
Just like Cas couldn’t stop hitting Andreas last week. I didn’t understand it then—why he kept swinging long after the first blow ended it. Why his face went blank, why his movements turned mechanical.
Now I know.
It’s not about the kill. It’s about the crowd. Their hunger feeds something primal, something that strips away every civilized thought until onlythis remains. Lift. Strike. Lift. Strike. My body moves without conscious thought, driven by thousands of voices screaming for blood.
I don’t think of Elijah. Not Marco.
I think of Esme.
The way she used to laugh when I’d chase her around, threatening to throw her in the tide pools if she didn’t put down her sketch pads and train with me. Her gray eyes bright with mischief. Her blonde hair flying behind her as she ran.
I think of her seeing me like this. Her brother, the one who was supposed to protect her, reduced to a butcher performing for the entertainment of strangers. A monster wearing her brother’s face.
My arms begin to tire.
The Deathball grows heavier with each swing. My shoulders burn. My grip slips on the handle, slick now with—
I force myself to stop. To open my eyes.
The mess beneath me used to be Elijah. His dark hair spreads like seaweed across the stone. Red stains the pink stone, pooling in the cracks between rocks.
Beside me, black shapes move about. The game architects, scaling the cliff in their sleek uniforms, having crossed the water in small boats that have suddenly materialized. They buzz around me like insects, efficient and emotionless.
One grabs my hand. I still clutch the Deathball in the other.
