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We were in the bowels of the Colosseum, in a dark loading bay just beneath the stands. The noise was an atmospheric pressure that rattled the teeth in my skull and thrummed in the marrow of my bones.

A maintenance monitor hung over the door on a rusted bracket, tuned to the feed. The broadcast had gone live at nine exactly.

“They’re waiting,” Leander whispered, leaning against the hydraulic press.

On the monitors above us, Director Tegula stood on the raised dais in the center of the field. He looked immaculate, a pillar of gray-suited authority bathed in the adoration of the masses. He was alone on the stage, flanked only by Anatol and Helier, the two loyal pillars he planned to build his new empire on.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Regime,” Tegula’s voice boomed, smooth as silk. “Perfection is not static. Perfection is ruthless. We culled the weak so the strong may thrive. Tonight, I present to you the future.”

He gestured to the main tunnel entrance.

“I give you... The National Team!”

The spotlights swung to the main tunnel. The music swelled, a triumphant orchestral crash designed to herald heroes.

Nothing happened. The tunnel stayed empty. No players marched out. No white and gold uniforms gleamed under the lights. The gates had unlocked at 09:04, on schedule, for a team that was not coming through them.

The music continued, but the applause faltered. It started as a few confused whispers near the front, then rippled outward like a contagion. Sixty thousand people craned their necks, looking for the stars they had been promised.

“Where are they?” a voice screamed from the front row, picked up by the stadium mics.

Tegula froze on the podium. His smile tightened, the corners of his mouth twitching. He glanced at the tunnel, then at his datapad. He was expecting his obedient soldiers to march out. He didn’t know they were standing behind me in a loading dock.

Sweat beaded on his forehead in high definition as I let him marinate, a glitch in his perfect performance. The crowd turned restless, their confusion curdling into anger as the silence stretched. They wanted their show. They wanted their Cento.

I looked back at the men behind me once before we went. Eleven of us, counting me, counting the man who was supposed to be on a stretcher. A full side.

“Now,” I said.

Sylla hit the manual override. The hydraulics screamed, a grinding metal shriek that fought the weight of the steel, and the blast doors slowly parted.

We stepped out into a blinding Colosseum. The floodlights were turned up to maximum intensity, a harsh shadowless noon in the night.

For a second, no one noticed us, because we weren’t coming from the main tunnel. We were emerging from the maintenance zone like rats crawling out of the woodwork.

Then a camera drone swung around. My face filled the Jumbotron, ten stories high. The image was gritty and unpolished. My hair was wild, matted with sweat. I looked furious. I looked alive.

The silence that hit the stadium was instantaneous. Sixty thousand throats cut off at once. A murmur started. Was this a drill? Were they prisoners?

“Keep walking,” I murmured to the squad. “Head high. Don’t look at the crowd.”

We marched toward the dais in a V-formation, cutting through the grass like a spear tip. I was at the point. Leander was at my right hand, terrifying in his ripped suit. Behind us, Sylla, Varo, Crus, and the rest of the Tier 1 squad walked in their dress uniforms, their faces set in grim determination.

Tegula’s eyes widened. He darted a look from the squad to the live feed monitors.

As I stepped onto the ramp leading to the stage, my knee buckled, a painful reminder of the weight I had carried through the tunnels, but I locked the joint and forced myself to keep moving. I could not look weak, not now.

Anatol stepped forward to block me. “What are you doing? This isn’t the plan.”

“Sit down, Getha,” Leander growled, stepping up to my shoulder.

Anatol sneered and bunched his fists, ready to shove Leander back down the ramp. Then he paused, his eyes flicking to the Director.

Tegula was watching the cameras. He gave a microscopic shake of his head. Not on record.

Anatol’s lips tightened to a thin line, but he was a dog who knew who held the leash. He stepped back, grinding his teeth, and cleared the path. I walked past him straight to Helier.

The Reserve Captain was standing next to the microphone, wearing a Tier 1 uniform that looked like a costume on his twitchy frame. He took in the torn shirt, the bloodshot eyes, the absolute lack of fear.