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The crowd paused, holding a collective intake of breath. He stood on the red carpet blinking against the glare, a looming presence in the dark suit, scowling as he scanned the crowd for a threat to neutralize rather than fans to impress.
“Smile,” I whispered through my teeth, keeping my own smile fixed in place. “You look like you’re about to murder a donor.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Walk,” I commanded. “On my left. Half a step behind. Show them the partnership.”
We walked the red carpet in an agonizing procession, stopping every few steps for the holocams. I posed, tilting my chin, giving them the angle of my jaw and the heavy-lidded boredom the magazines called mysterious, while Leander stood rigid beside me hating every frame of it. The heat of his anger radiated across the small gap between us.
A reporter from the Capital News Network thrust a microphone over the barrier.
“Asset Cento! A moment for the viewers at home?”
The camera drone hovered in my face, its red eye unblinking, live to millions of screens.
“Of course,” I said, making it velvet.
“The buzz around the Crucible is intense,” the reporter said, her eyes raking over my body with hungry appreciation. “Everyone is talking about the new pairing. How is the synergy developing with the transfer?”
She glanced at Leander. Her nose wrinkled slightly, just a fraction, as if she could smell the slums on him.
“Leander is... a unique asset,” I said, stepping closer to place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard muscle tense beneath the suit jacket. “His raw potential is staggering. The Director matched us because he knows I need a partner that can clear the path so I can finish the job.”
Leander stiffened under my touch, his eyes flicking to mine for a fraction of a second, hunting for the mockery. When he found none, his jaw set, and he let the lie stand for the sake of the cameras.
“And is it true?” the reporter asked, leaning in. “The rumors about his aggression metrics? Is he difficult to handle?”
It was a trap with two doors. Yes made me weak. No made me a liar.
“Aggression is only a flaw if you lack the strength to direct it,” I said, squeezing Leander’s shoulder, a warning grip. “We are working on the direction. The results will speak for themselves.”
“Fascinating,” she breathed. She turned her gaze on Leander, her eyes dropping to scan his build. “And you, Asset Regillen? The Genetic Board released your preliminary vital stats this morning. Triple-A metabolic efficiency. High-yield stamina markers. You are becoming quite the commodity for the sample banks.”
Leander flinched, and the reminder hung in the air between the three of us: we were breeding stock, our stats scrolling across public tickers alongside game scores while the citizens debated our genetic viability with the same obsession they applied to pass completion rates. The public liked to believe we were too precious to break. The Director knew better. If we won, we were icons; if we lost, all that genetic perfection just meant we made stronger corpses on the Front Lines.
“It’s an honor to serve the Regime,” Leander recited, his voice monotone, like a man reading a hostage note. “I go where I am ordered.”
“A patriot,” the reporter cooed. “And a handsome one too. I’m sure the samples from your profile will be in high demand at the fertility clinics this season.”
A tremor ran through Leander’s frame, his hands twitching at his sides with the urge to hit her or tear the drone out of the sky, but he did neither, which two weeks ago would have been outside his operating tolerances. I could see the effort standing in the line of his jaw.
“We have to go,” I said, cutting the interview short. “The Director is waiting.”
I steered Leander away, guiding him toward the massive double doors of the Grand Hall.
“You handled that well,” I whispered.
“I wanted to rip her throat out,” Leander growled. “Samples. Like I’m a prize bull at a county fair.”
“It’s just noise, Leander. They want the genes, they don’t want you.”
“If I have such great genes,” Leander muttered, glancing at the soldiers guarding the door, “why are they threatening to send me to the Front?”
“Because the Regime doesn’t care how pretty you are,” I whispered, leaning close so only he could hear. “If it’s not you, it will be another one. If you can’t play soccer, you’re just meat for the grinder. Triple-A genetics just means you’ll last five minutes longer in the trenches than the average recruit.”
“Is that why you’re fucking terrified, Felix?” Leander asked. “Afraid of the mud?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The true answer was standing somewhere behind those doors with a drink in his hand.
