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CHAPTER

THREE

Zaffir

“Do you have the cut ready?” Joree asked on the other end of the line, sharp and impatient, the same tone I’d come to expect from every producer, Architect, and executive up the chain at the Show Center. They never asked nicely. Never waited long enough to listen.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a breath through clenched teeth. “Just about,” I replied, keeping my voice even.

I didn’t hate the job. In fact, I liked a lot of it. Manipulating light and shadow, finding the right angles, pacing shots with rhythm and tension. It was an art form, and when I was behind the lens, when it was just me and the footage, I felt like an artist. But the editing booth was where the art bled out, where the work got warped into something false. That’s what I hated. That’s where they turned real people into characters and pain into spectacle. I especially hated that I was getting good at that part too .

I sat cross-legged on the thin cot bolted to the floor of the train car, computer perched in front of me. The footage flickered across the screen, paused on Ezra’s face. Cutting his segment was hard, there wasn’t much to work with, but I found a few shots of him on stage, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something dark. He looked like a powder keg moments from going off.

That was good.

Praxis didn’t love when Challengers showed open hostility toward the system, but this wasn’t hostility. This was potential. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, viewers craved a villain as much as they craved a hero.

Now I was scrubbing through Bex’s footage. The moment her name was called, the camera caught everything. She didn’t hear it at first. Then I watched as her smile froze, her body stiffened, then she turned toward the crowd like she couldn’t breathe.

The fear was palpable, but then there was resolve, focus, acceptance. She hid her fear from her brother’s eyes. Trying not to scare him anymore than he already was.

The lens had almost missed her goodbye to her brother, the exchange was half hidden in the crowd. But when Bex knelt to say goodbye, the world disappeared around them. I watched her lips tremble with unspoken words, the desperate way she tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, the quiet grief that pressed into her features.

And him…God, the closer I looked, the more obvious it was. The boy was sick. Pale, thin, fingers twitching slightly as he clutched her arm. I could see it now, the degeneration she spoke of.

I cursed under my breath. “Shit…”

I couldn’t believe I accused her of faking it. Of using him. The guilt gnawed at me now. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t selling grief. That was real.

I dropped her confessional into the sequence, overlaying it against the goodbye, her voice soft but steady, the way she spoke of Jax with such reverence. “He’s my best friend… my person…” she had said. I ended the segment on a close-up of her face, eyes bright with tears and fierce with resolve.

Those eyes. God, those eyes.

I froze the frame. Blue as a sparkling pool. Her face was soft, tanned, framed by windswept dusty blonde curls. She didn’t need dramatic lighting or fake angles, the camera adored her all on its own.

I wasn’t lying when I told her she was beautiful. I meant it. Every word.

Even if I shouldn’t have.

Even if I knew better than to get pulled in.

But something about her tugged at me. Not just her looks, there was a gravity to her, a pull I couldn’t quite name. Viewers would fall for her whether we played her up as the underdog or the symbol of hope.

“Zaffir?” the voice snapped again through the phone.

I blinked, shook off the daze.

“Yeah,” I said, fingers hovering over the trackpad. “I’m done.”

“Send it off. We’re piecing the premiere together now,” she snapped, her voice clipped and cold. Then the line went dead.

No goodbye. No thanks. Just a command and silence.

I stared at the frozen frame of Bex’s face for a few more seconds, my thumb hovering over the trackpad. Then, with a reluctant breath, I closed the image and dragged the file into the transfer folder. Watching the progress bar crawl across the screen felt different this time for some reason.

Once it was gone, I set the computer aside and laid back on the cot, arms folded behind my head as I stared up at the metal ceiling of the train car. A low hum of machinery vibrated through the walls.

Five years. That’s how long I’ve been behind the camera, capturing the rise and fall of Reclamation Challengers like clockwork. I’ve filmed their introductions, their first confessional, their wins, their failures. I’ve cut together highlight reels of their deaths.

They all become stories. Then they become spectacles. Then they become memories.

I used to think I was desensitized to it. That maybe, over time, I’d built up some kind of immunity. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself that this year was just like all the rest, the thought of Brexlyn Hollis dying out there made my stomach churn. Maybe it’s because before this, they’d always signed up for it. They campaigned for it. But not her. She was plucked from the crowd, ripped from her brother and she had no say in the matter.

I knew the odds. Most people didn’t make it. Especially not from the Canyon Collective. Their track record was basically a death sentence.

And yet, God, I didn’t want that to be her story. I didn’t want to cut her eulogy six weeks from now with some overly dramatic piano music and a slow montage of everything we “loved” about her.

She deserved more than that.

If I couldn’t keep her safe myself, I’d do the only thing I could. I’d make her unforgettable. I’d sculpt her image into something no one could bear to lose. I’d make the world fall in love with her, their underdog, their hope, their hero. I’d wrap her story in so much courage and meaning that the audience would demand her survival .

Because if they demanded it, Praxis would have to listen. Ratings trump rules. They always have.

That’s how I’d help her. Not with weapons or strategy or even kindness.

With a story.

It was the only power I had