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CHAPTER

TWO

Bex

The rhythmic movement of the train would have been soothing if I wasn’t headed to my death. The last time I had ridden any sort of public transportation was when Damien Westhold won that trial nearly fifteen years ago. That was the last time the Canyon Collective ever placed first in anything. After his win, the train lines came back to life. Buses were delivered from Praxis and ran on constant loops, day and night, ready to take you anywhere you wanted. I used to hop on just to ride, no destination in mind, just because I could. I’d never known that kind of freedom before, and I haven’t known it since.

People danced in the streets that year, their joy infectious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Collective that happy. Damien never made it back to witness it, though, he died in the electricity trial. But for one year, we all reaped the benefits of his sacrifice.

We haven’t won a trial since .

When we placed eighth in the transportation trial the next year, the buses vanished. The train still showed up once every three months, but no one boarded it, not unless they wanted to wait another three months to come back. So, for a moment I tried to ignore the twisting pain and fear in my gut and focus on the rhythmic hum and the gentle sway of the train beneath me.

Across the aisle, Ezra sat stiffly, his gaze fixed out the window as the desert of the Canyon Collective blurred by. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget, he just stared, unmoving. I took the opportunity to really look at him for the first time.

His hair was a mess of dirty blonde waves that fell onto his forehead and curled slightly above his ears. His jaw was sharp, tense, like he was clenching it to hold something in. He looked calm on the surface, but I could see the tight pull of his muscles, the way his hand twitched slightly against his thigh. His face was mostly turned away, leaving me to wonder, absurdly, what color his eyes were.

Before I could think too much about that, Nova appeared again, gliding down the aisle from the front of the train where she’d disappeared after we boarded. She wore a new outfit, just as shiny, just as metallic, but this time even more uncomfortable looking with spikes and beads.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, her heels clicking against the floor as she approached. She had a silver case in her hands. “Leave it to your Collective to give us absolutely nothing to work with. Silent and boring as usual,” she groaned, motioning for someone to follow in behind her.

The man who followed Nova onto the train car was tall. He had broad shoulders, and toned arms visible under the soft golden fabric of his short-sleeved shirt. It had the distinct shimmer of Praxis-issued gear, but his looked more functional, lived-in, nothing like Nova’s performative glamour. Cords and equipment wrapped around him like some kind of tactical vest, camera slung at his side, gear clipped to his belt, thick headphones over his ears.

He had cropped red hair, pale skin dusted with freckles, and a face that could have stopped people mid-sentence. He was undeniably handsome, annoyingly so.

But whatever flicker of attraction sparked was instantly snuffed out by the twist of nausea in my gut. Because he was one of them. Praxis. And no matter how pretty the wrapping, he was part of the machine sending us to die.

“This is Zaffir Stark,” Nova announced with a dramatic flourish, as if she were unveiling a prize instead of a person. “He’s your Collective’s designated cameraman for the duration of the Reclamation Run. He’ll be filming nearly every waking moment in the desperate hope that one of you does something remotely interesting enough to make the final cut.” She waved a dismissive hand in front of her face like she was already disappointed in us.

“He’ll also be filming your talking head confessionals now that the vote’s done.” She nodded at Zaffir, tall, silent, all business, as he began unpacking his camera gear and setting up lights without so much as a glance our way.

“Who’s feeling brave enough to go first?”

My head instinctively turned toward Ezra. He hadn’t moved. He stared at Nova with the same cold focus I’d seen on his face since the announcement. No flinch, no twitch. Just stillness. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, I’d have believed he’d turned to stone.

After a long, pointed silence, Nova let out a sigh. “Fine. Ladies first, then.”

Panic surged through me, hot and immediate. My palms dampened, breath catching in my throat.

“God, you look a mess,” Nova said bluntly, stepping forward and snapping open a sleek silver case that revealed an overwhelming array of makeup. “Zaffir, we’ll take hers first. Get some B-roll of the train while I make her camera-ready.”

Without a word, Zaffir obeyed, disappearing down the aisle with his gear.

Nova turned her attention to me, all efficient movements and sharp tuts of disapproval. She poked and swept and dabbed with brushes and powders I didn’t recognize, luxuries the Canyon Collective hadn’t seen in years. Hell, we couldn’t even win the basic resource trials, let alone anything extra.

After a few minutes of relentless dabbing, brushing, and smoothing, my skin felt like it had been sealed beneath a layer of carefully curated lies. Nova finally leaned back, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied grin.

“There we go,” she declared. “You might be the prettiest Challenger we’ve had from your Collective in a long while. They kept sending us homely looking men, who looked like they haven’t showered in days.” I didn’t interject to say that most of them hadn’t because they’d been sitting in a jail cell for days leading up to the election. “That face of yours will get us some screen time.”

She practically buzzed with excitement, but I felt cold and tight with nausea. It didn’t feel like the compliment she made it out to be. I glanced over, needing something solid to focus on, and found Ezra watching me.

Green. His eyes were green.

He studied me in silence, his expression unreadable, no smirk, no scoff, not even a blink. I couldn’t tell if he thought I looked ridiculous or if he was just curious what Nova had turned me into. His poker face was ironclad.

“She’s ready,” Nova announced, snapping my attention back. She grabbed my arm with a little too much flair and steered me down the aisle to where Zaffir had finished setting up the shot.

Nova dropped me into the seat like a prop being set for a scene, then settled beside me with the elegance of someone who knew exactly how good she looked on camera. Zaffir, all quiet precision, adjusted the towering equipment in front of me. A blinding light clicked on, searing into my vision, and I instinctively winced. Without saying a word, he dimmed it slightly. I considered thanking him, but the words got stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

“All right,” Zaffir said, his voice low and warm, like honey stirred into tea. “Just look into the camera and answer my questions, okay?”

I couldn’t seem to make my mouth work, so I nodded instead, praying all the questions would be yes-or-no.

“What’s your name and which Collective are you from?”

So much for that.

I swallowed hard, trying to summon enough spit to make a sound. “Um…” I cleared my throat. “My name is um…Brexlyn… Hollis, but Bex, actually. I’m Bex. I’m from the Canyon Collective.” The words barely made it out. A whisper masquerading as a sentence.

“Oh for the love of….child, the camera’s not going to bite,” Nova snapped from her perch. “Wipe that look off your face and try again.”

I met her eyes for half a second, just long enough to absorb the disdain, then turned back to the camera. “My name is Brexlyn Hollis, and I’m from the Canyon Collective,” I repeated, only a shade more confident.

Nova scoffed, but didn’t interrupt. It must’ve been passable.

Zaffir continued, voice still calm and neutral, as though the question held no real weight. “Are you proud to represent your Collective in the Reclamation Run?”

The truth sat on the tip of my tongue, burning like ash. Proud? Of course I wasn’t proud. I was being sent to a deadly competition with the hopes that I may manage to earn scraps of basic human necessities for the people I care about?

But they didn’t want that truth in these confessionals. I’ve seen enough episodes of this wicked show to know that they want me to lie, to say I’m honored to have been chosen for such a momentous event, to tell them that Praxis has given me a beautiful opportunity. They want me to be grateful.

But I don’t think I can do that.

“Speak, woman!” Nova screeched, frustration evident in her tone.

“Nova, why don’t you give me a minute to talk to her alone,” Zaffir said gently, his tone careful but firm.

I glanced up at him through the glare of the lights. Past the lens and into his eyes, golden, warm, and sharp all at once. He was watching me closely, like he could see the storm that was raging under my skin.

Nova sighed, loud and theatrical. “Fine,” she muttered, rising with a dramatic roll of her eyes. She sauntered to the built-in bar at the far end of the train car, already pouring herself a glass of something amber and expensive-looking, like she couldn’t possibly be bothered with my nerves a second longer.

Ezra stayed put, still perched in his seat twenty feet back, his unreadable gaze fixed on the spectacle before him.

And then it was just me and Zaffir.

A small red light blinked at the top of the camera. A quiet reminder that it was watching, recording. But Zaffir didn’t stay behind it like he was supposed to. Instead, he slipped around the setup, crouching in front of me until we were eye to eye.

Up close, his eyes looked even warmer, more complex. Golden with flecks that caught the light like the sun through honey. For a moment, I forgot where I was.

“Look,” he said softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the train. “I know you’re scared. And I know you don’t want to be here.”

I opened my mouth to argue out of habit, but he raised a hand, stopping me with a gentle shake of his head.

“You don’t need to pretend that’s not the truth,” he said. His gaze didn’t waver. There was something there, just beneath the surface, compassion maybe, or pity. “My job is to get the most interesting content out of you and Ezra. The more screen time you get, the better.”

I nodded. That much I already knew.

Zaffir glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure Nova was still preoccupied at the bar before leaning in a little closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Look it’s no secret…interesting Challengers? They tend to last longer.”

Something in his tone shifted. He wasn’t just giving me advice. He was warning me.

I stared at him, mind racing. I nodded again, slowly this time, as if that would help me make sense of the hundred questions swirling inside me.

“So, there’s a couple ways you could play this,” he said. “You could go the sympathy route. Audiences love a tragic backstory. Pull their heartstrings.”

My thoughts immediately went to Jax, his laugh, his limp, the quiet pain we all pretended not to notice. To Ava and her brother. How much pain and loss she’s been through. My stomach turned. I hated the idea of turning them into a strategy. But if it helped me make it to the medical trial …

I hesitated. “Or…?”

Zaffir gave me a heated look that made my skin prickle. “Or, you make them want you.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Want me?”

“Nova’s not wrong. You’re gorgeous,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, but it made warmth bloom in my cheeks. “You could lean into that, be flirtatious, mysterious, magnetic. Give the audience someone to obsess over. Make them want more of you.”

A shocked laugh burst out of me, sharp and breathless. “You’re not serious.”

His expression didn’t shift. “Dead serious.”

The laugh died in my throat, and suddenly I felt the weight of what he was really suggesting. Of what I had to do. I shook my head, trying to process.

“No, I… I can’t do that. I mean, I don’t… I’ve never…” The words stumbled out, each one more awkward than the last. My cheeks burned. “I’m not… desirable. Not like that.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make me regret saying anything at all.

His eyes flicked over me, a glance so quick I could’ve convinced myself I imagined it. But the heat that followed in its wake, lingering and sharp like the brush of a flame, was impossible to ignore. It curled against my skin, startling and oddly comforting.

“I beg to differ,” he said, voice low and certain.

This time, I didn’t have to imagine the heat in his gaze. It was real. Intense. Unapologetic.

I suddenly felt too bare beneath it. Too seen. So I dropped my eyes to the floor, hoping the flush in my face didn’t give away just how much his words had shaken me.

“I can’t,” I replied .

He nodded like he’d expected it. “Okay. So, sob story it is, then?”

There was no judgment in his voice, but the question still hit hard. I hated that those were my choices. I hated that I was even considering them.

I looked away, pressing my lips together. Part of me wanted to scream. The other part, the part that needed to make it to the medical trial for Jax, was already doing the math.

And it made me feel sick.

“I don’t want them to feel like I’m using them to get attention,” I whispered, the fear in my chest finally finding shape.

“Who?” Zaffir asked softly.

“My best friend,” I said. “And my brother, Jax.” I swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, but my voice was already trembling. “He’s six.”

Zaffir leaned in just slightly, his expression gentle. “Tell me about them.”

I tried not to look at the blinking red light perched on top of the camera. Tried not to think about how every word I said was being recorded, analyzed, broadcast. Instead, I focused on him, the strange, steady presence of the man sitting just a breath away. He didn’t seem like Praxis. Not like the others. Not like Nova. He felt… quieter. Calmer. More human. I wanted to believe that.

“Ava, she lost her leg when we were younger. And then a few years later,” I swallowed the lump in my throat, “she lost her brother.” I didn’t dare say that Praxis was the reason behind it. “I just hate that I had to leave her, too.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s already lost enough,” I answered, feeling tears sting my eyes.

“What makes you think she’ll lose you? ”

‘Because we always lose’, was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. “It’s a dangerous game.” Was all I said.

“Tell me about your brother,” Zaffir prompted.

I narrowed my eyes at him, anger mixing with my sadness.

“My brother is the light of my life,” I began, the words brittle in my throat. An undercurrent of fury at this red head’s insinuation beneath each word. “My best friend. My person. You know that person who makes you feel like the world still has good in it?” I paused, blinking back the pressure behind my eyes. “That’s him.”

Zaffir reached out and took my hand, warm, gentle. His thumb brushed across the back of it like he was urging me forward without words. And I found comfort in it.

“He was born with a muscle disorder. At first, it was small things, he'd fall a lot, couldn’t keep up with other kids. Now... he can barely walk some days. His muscles are wasting away, and there’s nothing in our Collective to stop it. We don’t have the medicine. The machines. Or the people who know how to help him.” My throat closed again, but I forced myself to push through it.

“Every day, I watch him fade just a little more. I wake up wondering if today’s the day he won’t be able to get out of bed. Or worse, the day he just... stops breathing.”

“Pretty honorable. Wanting to win those trials for your brother.”

I didn’t answer at first, simply trying to find the words to say.

“Fame and glory can’t hurt either, right?” He asked.

I shook my head.

The tears spilled before I could stop them.

“I’m not interested in fame, or glory. The medical trials are the only way I might be able to help him. I have a chance to save him.” I steadied myself and with a tone so fierce even I felt convinced, “I have to take it.”

Zaffir reached up, brushing a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. His touch was featherlight, careful, but it lingered just a second too long to be purely professional.

I should’ve flinched away. Should’ve pulled back, reminded myself who he was and what he represented. But instead, I froze, caught in the gravity of him. His eyes held mine, like he was seeing something more than a subject. And I looked back.

For a moment, everything else faded. The blinking red light of the camera, the stale scent of recycled air, even the gnawing ache of guilt in my chest. It was just him. Zaffir. Too close. Too warm. Too real.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t trust it. But I felt it all the same.

His fingers hovered near my cheek a beat longer, like he was reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, it was gone. He leaned back, and the cold settled in again, swift and merciless.

“Tears are really going to sell it,” he said suddenly, his voice snapping back into something clinical. Cold. Detached.

I blinked, stunned, the spell of intimacy shattered. He leaned back, his expression unreadable, and reached over to shut off the camera.

“Smart move picking one of the later trials,” he said, now fiddling with buttons and dials like I hadn’t just poured my heart out in front of him. “Keeps the audience rooting for you. They’ll want to see if you make it that far. Stroke of genius, really.” His tone was dry and dismissive.

I stared at him, the weight of what he’d said settling in like a stone in my chest.

“Was any of that true?” he asked, barely looking at me. “ About your brother and your friend? Or did you make it up for the camera?”

“What?” I choked, the word cutting through the silence.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said casually, still focused on the camera. “It played real. But this whole thing is just theater, right? Wouldn’t be the first time a Challenger spun a story.”

“I didn’t make anything up,” I snapped, my voice shaking with fury. “Every word was true.”

He didn’t respond.

I stood so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor. Without another word, I turned and walked back toward my seat, blood pounding in my ears. I felt Ezra watching me. His gaze followed every step I took, but he didn’t say anything.

Maybe he couldn’t.

I slid back into my spot, hands clenched tight in my lap, jaw locked against the anger rising in my throat. I had almost trusted Zaffir. Almost let myself believe there was someone in Praxis who might actually see me. But he was no different. Just another piece of the machine.

“Alright, big guy,” Zaffir called out cheerfully, like none of it had happened. “Get over here. Your turn in the spotlight.”

Ezra stood, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer before he made his way over to the set.

And just like that, it was someone else’s story they were ready to exploit.

“Alright,” Zaffir began, his voice clipped and tinged with impatience as Ezra finally claimed the seat in front of the camera setup. “What tactic are you gonna go with?”

Ezra remained still. Not a word. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Zaffir exhaled slowly through his nose, irritation tightening the set of his jaw. “Okay then. Let’s just begin, shall we?” He flicked the camera on with an annoyed little snap of his fingers. “What’ s your name and which Collective are you representing?”

Silence.

I shifted in my seat, watching the standoff unfold. Zaffir’s fingers drummed against the arm of his chair. “Stoicism is great and all,” he said, his voice sharpening, “but you’re going to have to give me something. You don’t have to pour your heart out, but if you don’t make your first appearance interesting, the audience isn’t going to care about you.”

He was trying to be threatening, but I doubted Ezra gave a damn about making the audience care. In fact, the more Zaffir talked, the more I was convinced that Ezra’s goal was the exact opposite.

“Ezra Wynstone, from the Canyon Collective,” Zaffir finally prompted for him, clearly done waiting. “You’ve been elected to compete in the Reclamation Run. Tell us, what do you hope to do for the people back home who got you here?”

That’s when it happened. Ezra leaned forward slowly, deliberate and dangerous. He stared down the barrel of the lens like it had personally wronged him. And when he spoke, his voice rumbled out low and rough, like it had been dragged across gravel.

“I’m gonna make ‘em pay for it.”

The words hit like a slap across the face. I felt the air in the room shift, charged, tense, electric. My heart stumbled in my chest, not sure whether it was fear or awe. Ezra’s voice carried a weight that felt like it could break through walls. This wasn’t for the sake of the show. This wasn't a strategy. This was a promise.

Zaffir let out a low whistle, clearly startled. “Bold move,” he said, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “But it might just work.”

Ezra pushed back from the chair and stood, no further commentary offered. He returned to his seat beside me like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the room. I met his gaze as he sat down. His dark eyes locked with mine, and he gave me a curt nod, simple, matter-of-fact.

It wasn’t warmth, not even friendliness. But it was… acknowledgment. A silent pact, maybe. He wasn’t going to be my best friend, but at that moment, I couldn’t help but feel like I might’ve just earned something rarer.

An ally.

And in this place, that could mean everything.