Morning breaks and her rushed encounter with Reese keeps replaying in her mind. She regrets every word of it and dreads the thought of losing control over her own decisions. She dreads facing someone with the power to persuade her.

  As she walks toward the dining hall, her breath quickens at the thought of having to see him again—so soon after their awfully awkward conversation. Is she supposed to act friendly now? When she steps through the door, every eye turns toward her. Some of those scrutinizing faces now carry a story—like that of Contestants 22 and 24, the biologist and the literature teacher, seated together near the entrance. Rebecca pays them no mind. She simply finds a seat, grabs a tray and swallows her food.

  Reese isn't there. Thank God.

  Another mandatory social media post follows, wrapping up the morning routine just as the scheduled training sessions begin. Contestants are divided into groups of nine, each given a forty-five-minute slot in the training facility booths, where they will face off against customized AI combat robots. These robots are programmed to provide a challenging yet supposedly safe sparring experience, with setups tailored to each contestant’s unique fighting style and physical capabilities.

  The robot facing Rebecca has a human-like form, but its entire body is gray. Its face is smooth, no eyes, no nose, nothing. Just a thin line of light that oscillates when it speaks. It explains that during her first sessions, it won’t defend itself. It will only move when she needs it to. Her task is to practice a series of Jiu-Jitsu techniques on it. Once she reaches a certain stage, when the robot determines she has mastered them—or, by default, hit her maximum potential—it will fight back.

  There will be no warning. This is the first and only time it will speak to her.

  The first technique she practices is an escape from beneath her opponent. The robot mounts on top of her, then stays still. Rebecca hesitates at first but winds up following the steps from her examination results, the ones the show sent her.

  She traps the robot’s arm, grabbing its wrist and securing its elbow. Then, she hooks its foot with her leg on the same side. She bridges—driving her hips up and rolling to the side, using the momentum to flip the robot over.

  At least, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

  But she fails.

  The robot is heavier than she expected, and she slams back down.

  On her fifth attempt, she finally escapes from beneath the robot. But by then, her time is almost up, and she’s out of breath. For the last fifteen minutes, she tests her flexibility, instead. It amazes her. Ballet already gave her movements beyond the norm, but now, her body moves in ways that look almost inhuman.

  First, she grabs her ankle and lifts it behind her head—but unlike before, during her dancing days, she doesn’t stop at 180 degrees. Her leg arcs farther, the elasticity in her hip allowing it to curve past her shoulder like a contortionist. She holds it effortlessly, her foot hovering inches from touching her head, balance completely unaffected.

  The next thing she tries is the split, which she executes instantly, her legs gliding apart like silk. Then, she folds deeper, resting her chest flat against the floor, arms extended beyond her head. If anyone were watching, they’d say she looked boneless.

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  Finally, she extends her legs on the sparring mat and rolls her shoulders back, testing her range of motion. Her arms extend, shoulders shifting subtly out of place, allowing them to stretch farther than they should before clicking back into position.

  She grins. It’s unbelievable.

  The moment she lowers her arms, Reese appears out of nowhere, smirking—like he’s been watching her every move.

  His eyes, usually bright and keen, narrow with a thoughtful intensity.

  “You’ve got potential,” he murmurs.

  He stretches out his hand, and with his help, Rebecca stands. She's struck by a mix of gratitude and something akin to… appreciation? The thought is unwelcome. Utterly unwelcome.

  She clears her throat, but her voice still comes out higher than normal. “What are you doing here?” she demands. “We’re not supposed to watch each other fight.”

  A rush of irritation crashes over her. The techniques she used during the sparring match now feel compromised—Reese has seen her fighting style, her strengths and weaknesses, and… her flexibility. That part is simply embarrassing.

  The mere thought of facing him in a real fight, stripped of the element of surprise, sends a chill down her spine.

  Then she assesses her chances objectively.

  He is taller and significantly more muscular than she is. The other contestants, many with years of experience in various forms of violence, pose an even greater threat. Against them, her flexibility may not be enough—whether they have seen her training strategy or not.

  Then, Reese speaks in a low, measured tone. “Relax, it's not like any of us know what we are doing.”

  His words only deepen her sense of hopelessness.

  “What’s your ability?” Rebecca demands. “Come on, you saw mine.”

  He doesn’t reply; instead, he places a knife in her hand and urges her to cut through his skin.

  She tastes the metallic trace of blood at the back of her tongue as she presses the blade to his skin. Rebecca stares at the crimson line on Reese’s forearm as it begins to knit itself closed, leaving behind only a faint pink scar. Horror twists her features. Did she just witness a display of near-invulnerability?

  His casual demeanor only infuriates her further.

  "You're invincible," she breathes. Then she looks at him—really looks at him. Now it all makes sense. Why he acts like victory is already his. He has everything he needs to win the show. And of all people, he wants an alliance with her. Why? She can’t begin to explain it. But the real question is: Is she being stupid by rejecting him?

  Reese chuckles, his pointy fangs lending him a feline edge that sends a shiver down her spine—one that has nothing to do with fear.

  “Most of me,” he corrects, his eyes glinting with amusement. He leans against the wall, his nonchalant posture more unnerving than any overt threat. “Except for two organs. But I’m not going to tell you which ones. Wouldn't want to give you any ideas.”

  He pauses, then adds with a hint of a smirk:

  “Though, considering your… flexibility, I imagine you could reach some rather… interesting places.”

  Rebecca’s face flushes crimson. She wants to retort—to lash out at his arrogant ass—but the words catch in her throat. His comment, intended as a taunt, unexpectedly strikes a nerve, one that’s nothing like the usual anger or resentment she feels toward him. She shoves the knife back into his hand, her cheeks burning.

  "Don't push it," she mutters, her voice barely a whisper, yet the steel in her eyes is unmistakable. She turns abruptly, desperate to escape this unsettling mix of fear and whatever else his casual revelation and teasing have stirred within her. Her mind races as she processes the implications of his near-invulnerability. She certainly feels like she should be embracing the idea of allying with him.

  "Please, Reese, protect me from being sent to the arena. Or from anyone going crazy and killing everybody in the house."

  That’s what she should be saying. But she doesn’t want to. Because no matter how far he gets her, only one will live at the end. And between them, it’s obvious who it will be. So an alliance doesn’t really make sense. Why prolong the inevitable anyway?