Page 6

CHAPTER

FIVE

Ezra

Nova’s god-awful screeching woke me before the sun had fully risen. Her voice pierced through the cabin walls, shrill and merciless, yelling something about it being “time to get up,” as if any of us had slept well enough to deserve that tone.

The morning light was beginning to slip through the slats of the blinds, casting sharp, golden stripes across the floor. Beneath my feet, the train’s momentum shifted, slowing, easing us into the final stretch. Praxis was close.

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face before tossing the covers aside and hauling myself upright. The cot in this glorified closet of a cabin wasn’t built for someone my height, and my spine reminded me of that fact with every reluctant pop and crack. I took my time stretching, dragging my arms overhead and twisting until the ache dulled enough to stand without grimacing.

I moved toward the outfit Nova had laid out for me the night before, black dress pants and a slate-grey button-down. Standard Collective issue. Dull. Lifeless. A walking eulogy to the system that chewed us up and spit us out. Meanwhile, Praxis would greet us in their flashy metallics like God descending from the heavens. We looked like the shadows they left behind. And that’s exactly how they liked it.

For a second, I considered putting my old clothes back on, the ones from the vote. But after days in a cell, those clothes were more grime than fabric. The shower on the train had been a gift, and I wasn’t about to ruin the feeling of being clean again. No matter how badly I wanted to tell Praxis and their issued clothing to fuck off.

So, despite the stubborn part of me that didn’t want to make anything easy for Nova Lockeley, I slid into the outfit she’d provided. Might as well look like her perfect little Challenger, even if I had no intention of playing the part.

I didn’t plan to speak during my confessional. I really didn’t. But the cameraman just had to ask that question, ‘what did I hope to do for the people of my Collective’?

The same people who convicted me. Who heard the evidence against me and locked me away anyway. Who sentenced me to die.

I wasn’t going to stay silent after that.

I didn’t care about dying. Hell, at this point I’d probably welcome the sweet release of death. But I didn’t want them to think they’d gotten away with it without a fight.

I watched the segment last night. One of the lounge cars had a mounted TV, and I needed something to dull the growing fire in my chest. I saw the lineup, each Collective parading their picks like prized livestock. The same Collectives that always won had strong, polished candidates who gave the camera a proud smile and fed the masses bullshit about “duty” and “honor.” I rolled my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a headache.

Then came the lottery picks. That was a different story. Fear practically oozed off the screen. I saw elders with fragile hands and sunken eyes, children barely old enough to tie their shoes. Now, being sent to die for their Collectives. The camera zoomed in on their trembling fingers, their darting eyes.

One Collective got a whole segment because their elected Challenger’s twin brother was chosen in the lottery. They did their confessional together, the elected was a little more reserved, a soft smile on her lips. But her brother? He was full of swagger and confidence.

A lucky family, they called it.

I called it losing both children in one fell swoop.

And then... It was Canyon’s turn.

And there I was.

The brooding silent type. The wildcard. The candidate with the dark attitude and even darker past. They painted me like I was some creature to be tamed. The red-haired cameraman worked with barely a scrap of footage and spun it into prime Nexum propaganda. I almost had to applaud the bastard for it.

Almost.

Up until last night, my plan was simple… fail the trials. Let Canyon lose. Let them feel every ounce of the consequences for casting me aside. If I was going to die, at least I’d drag their precious hope down with me.

But then…

Then she happened.

Bex.

Now I had a reason to make it to the medical trial. A reason to fight, if not for Canyon, then for her. Maybe I needed to survive long enough to give her a shot at getting home.

Maybe I had to play the game.

Last night as I watched the screen, I tried not to focus on her. I didn’t want to get involved. Didn’t want to think about the person from my Collective who’d be just as dead as I was in a few weeks.

But then her face filled the frame, eyes like the sky. Haunted. She got more screen time than anyone, clear shots of her tearful interview, and her touching goodbye with her brother. That was good. She’d need to rely on that kind of sympathy when it all turned to blood and smoke.

I couldn’t listen to another second of the Nexum-fed lies, so I slipped away for a drink. Something to silence the noise in my head.

And that’s when I found her.

I groaned, trying to ignore the way the thought of her standing there in that thin fucking silk nightgown made my cock stand at attention. I saw the way her breasts heaved as I neared her, the way her nipples jutted through the fabric of that night dress. I had to force myself not to bend down and taste them right then and there.

Any kind of relationship would only complicate things. The last thing I needed was for Nexum to twist whatever feelings I might, or might not, have into some kind of headline. A tragic romance. A betrayal. A narrative they could sink their claws into.

So I shoved that strange pull I felt toward her deep down, buried it beneath layers of grit and resolve, and locked it away where no one, not even me, could touch it.

Then I stepped out of my cabin, face blank, heart walled off and headed to the main cabin.

Nova’s high-pitched and annoying voice met me before I even rounded the corner. She was buzzing around like a deranged hummingbird, hunched over who I assumed was Bex, applying makeup with the same obsessive fervor she’d shown yesterday.

She was painting her face again, no doubt with dark, smoky eyes, rouged cheeks, lips likely bleeding red. It did something to her features, giving her a striking, almost dangerous beauty. But I found myself preferring the way she’d looked last night. Barefaced. Blushing. Real.

Get a grip, I told myself, jaw tightening as I dropped into one of the seats that faced away from them. I needed to focus. Not on her. Not on that face. Not on the memory of her sleepy voice or the softness of her cardigan brushing against my bare chest.

Zaffir, the ever-present shadow with a lens, was already moving around the cabin, filming everything like the voyeur he was. I saw the camera shift toward me before I even heard his voice.

“Good morning, Ezra,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“Are you looking forward to seeing Praxis today?” Still nothing from me.

He pushed again. “And are you excited to meet the other Challengers?”

I flicked my eyes up to the lens, then back down, saying nothing. I could hear the tight breath of his frustration, which almost made me smile. Almost.

Play the game, I reminded myself. For her.

But the words wouldn’t come. I didn’t know how to play it, not in a way that didn’t make me feel like I was slicing off parts of myself just to fit into their frame.

Zaffir gave a low huff and turned his attention toward the real star of the show…Bex.

“You’re just about ready,” Nova chirped. “And... there.” She stepped back like a painter finishing a canvas, admiring her work.

I couldn’t see past her at first, but I felt it. That tug in my chest, the tightening of something I didn’t want to name. My neck craned against my will, hungry for a glimpse.

And then Nova shifted, and there she was.

Bex sat in the center of the cabin like she didn’t even know she’d stolen the air right out of it. Her blonde curls were swept into soft waves that kissed the edges of her cheeks and spilled over her leather-clad shoulders. A black corset cinched at her waist, structured and elegant, flaring out into a skirt that teased movement with every breath. Her eyes were lined in deep, smoky black, and her lips, god, those lips, were painted in a red so rich I couldn’t stop the thought of seeing them stretched over a thick hard part of me.

It hit me low, hard, and sudden. A surge of heat, a hunger that had no business affecting me this much.

And I didn’t realize how badly I’d slipped until I caught the movement to my right.

Zaffir.

His camera.

Pointed directly at me.

He’d caught it. Every flicker of lust, every pulse of weakness. It was all on film now. My big, stupid, traitorous reaction.

Fuck.

I forced my expression to harden, turning away, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. This couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let it. Not with her. Not like this.

Not with them watching.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Zaffir’s voice slid in like a knife disguised as silk, low and baiting.

I glanced up.

He wasn’t even looking at me. His gaze was on her. Bex. His mouth hung slightly open, that dazed, awestruck look on his face as if he forgot, for just a second, where he was.

A flash of jealousy shot through my chest like a live wire.

“Don’t look at her,” I growled, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

Zaffir’s head turned toward me slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d just won a bet with himself. “It’s my job to,” he said, with a shrug that tried for nonchalance, but I saw the heat still simmering behind his eyes.

“No,” I snapped, voice low and dangerous. “It’s your job to film. Not to stare.”

He cocked his head, lens still trained on me, and his voice dipped into something far more calculated. “Well you certainly were.. Staring, I mean.” He said, pointing to the camera which was still firmly fixed on me.

My fists clenched at my sides. I tried to keep my tone level and firm. Not begging. Threatening. “Don’t use that footage.”

“Why not?” he asked, clearly enjoying himself now. “Too real? Too honest?” His camera didn’t budge.

“Because I don’t need you turning this into something it’s not,” I hissed through clenched teeth, glancing to the side to make sure Nova still had Bex distracted. She was fussing with a stray curl near her shoulder and droning on about how excited she was for the food she was going to scarf down at the welcome party.

Zaffir raised a brow, mocking interest dripping off him. “Oh?” He turned his head back toward Bex, giving her a once-over. “She’s a pretty girl. Can’t say I’d blame you if you were developing feelings.”

I moved before I could stop myself, rising from my seat and stepping in, right to the edge of his precious shot. My shadow blocked part of his light and the lens tilted slightly upward to compensate.

“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered, venom in every word.

Zaffir didn’t even flinch. If anything, his smile widened like he’d finally struck gold. “Did I hit a nerve?”

His tone was smug, a thread of pride woven through the faux innocence. This was what he wanted. A reaction. A spark. Something to spice up the show between segments of Nexum propaganda and sanitized interviews. And I was giving it to him.

I stared at him and something clicked. Maybe this was how I played the game. By letting him take control.

Let him film the glare, the growl, the tension between us like it was some new subplot for the masses to eat up. Let him shape me into whatever caricature he needed for his little show. Let him make me so interesting that they wanted me to stick around long enough so I could keep her safe.

Let him “produce” me.

“Leave her alone,” I said, stepping back deliberately, just far enough to be sure I was framed cleanly in his lens.

Zaffir’s eyes narrowed like he knew what I was doing. He could feel the shift. “You’re awfully protective of Miss Hollis,” he said, the words practically laced with bait. He was setting the stage, and handing me the script.

“Because if anyone deserves to win the Reclamation Run and return home to their family… it’s her.” The words came out easy. Honest. And that was the worst part, it was the truth. But the slow, satisfied curve of Zaffir’s lips told me I’d just bought myself a spotlight.

The camera’s light blinked off, and he lowered it with a click before stepping in. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Good work,” he said with a hint of praise .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied flatly, eyes locking with his.

But he wasn’t fooled. He gave me that smug, knowing smirk. “Sure you don’t.”

Then he glanced past me. I didn’t have to follow his gaze. I could feel her behind me like a beacon. Bex. She didn’t even have to speak for the room to tilt toward her.

“You and I want the same thing,” he said carefully.

Another flicker of jealousy lit through my chest but I bit it back before it burned through.

“I want her to win,” Zaffir went on, voice surprisingly sincere. “I want her to get what she needs for her brother. I want her to make it out.”

I studied him. Hard. The way he said it. The way his eyes softened when they landed on her again. He wasn’t lying. Or if he was, he was a damn convincing actor.

“Since when does Praxis care who wins the trials?” I spat.

He met my gaze for a brief moment, he looked like he was going to say something, but then stopped himself. Finally, he spoke. “We’re always rooting for our favorites.” It was a Praxis response, but it seemed… wrong. Like he didn’t really mean it.

I glared at him. “And so what, you’re going to help her?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “ We are.”

I folded my arms, jaw clenched, waiting.

“I can’t fight in those trials with you,” he continued. “But I can shift the narrative. I can make the world fall in love with her. I can turn her into a fan favorite, give her momentum.”

“And me?” I asked, voice like flint. “What do you expect my part to be in all this?”

Zaffir’s eyes gleamed like he’d been waiting for that question.

“I can make you into the quiet soldier. The brooding protector. The guy who doesn’t give a damn about the cameras or the glory, only her.” He looked at her again, and for a split second, I wasn’t sure who he was pitching the story for, me or himself. “If we play it right, the viewers will eat it up. They’ll root for her. Fight for her. They’ll want you there to protect her.”

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice again. “And maybe… that’ll be enough to keep her alive.”

My breath slowed. The possessiveness hadn’t faded, but it was tempered now by something colder. Smarter.

The more people who cared about her, the more shields she'd have in this game.

Still… “What’s in it for you?” I asked, watching him like a wolf watches another circling too close to the kill.

That glimmer in his eyes returned. That look, lust tangled up with fascination. “I just want her to survive this.”

“You like her,” I said, quietly.

He gave a half-shrug, unapologetic. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. “Can you blame me?”

Jealousy twisted again in my gut, but it didn’t settle. It burned itself out with the realization that the more allies she had meant more chance for her safety. And the truth was…no, I couldn't blame him.

“Fine,” I said, quietly. “Tell me what I need to do.”