So this is what it feels like.

  Rebecca follows Contestant 1 through the steel door. They step into the dimly lit corridor between the common room and the storage room. The only other time she was here, she was holding Reese’s hand.

  No. Don’t think of him.

  Contestant 1 had been the first to stand in this place, alongside Contestant 54. She’s dead now. And so is the person who killed her. Is that going to be her story, too?

  The arena doors slide open. Light—blinding, mercilessly white—clouds her vision. Contestant 1 steps forward first, standing tall, shoulders squared. Rebecca can’t see his face, but she doesn’t have to. She knows he’s smirking.

  They step onto the floating balcony. The balustrade in front of them descends—sinking smoothly until the handrail disappears into the decking. At that exact moment, two platforms rise before them. A single meter squared. No handles. No support.

  Rebecca’s chest rises and falls too fast. Her legs tremble. She’s trained for balance. She knows how to stay still in a narrow space, even five meters above the ground on a moving platform. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

  She inhales, exhales, and steps onto the platform. A spider drone binds her ankles and wrists. The platform takes off beneath her, and the journey begins.

  It’s easier than it looks. That probably explains why no one has ever fallen. Contestant 1 is carried to the far left side of the arena, while Rebecca’s platform descends to the right. It lowers smoothly, then slides away beneath her feet.

  Two drones remove the ties from her wrists and ankles. The male host’s voice booms overhead:

  “Let the battle begin!”

  She doesn’t even have time to think before hands clamp onto her arms. They lift her from the ground and hurl her through the air—like a basketball. She hits the dirt hard, landing on her side. The impact scrapes her skin raw. The force sends her rolling, momentum dragging her several meters before she finally stops.

  The entire left side of her body burns—her leg, her arm, her face. She presses her palms into the dirt, pushing herself up. But before she can even lift her torso, he’s there again. His fingers tangle around her hair. One second he’s standing still, the next he’s behind her. No movement in between. Just a shift—like time skipped a frame.

  Contestant 1 yanks her up by the hair and shakes her like a rag doll.

  "Come on, 42. Fight." His voice is mocking. Playful.

  He lifts her again. This time, her feet drag uselessly against the ground before he slams her head against the nearest metallic wall. Everything snaps to black. The voices of the hosts, the cheers of the crowd—gone. In their place, a high-pitched ringing.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Rebecca grabs her head. The ground tilts beneath her as she struggles to stand. Her vision swims. She looks around—but Contestant 1 is gone.

  And then, a punch to the gut. She crumples to her knees, coughing.

  "I don’t want to kill you fast." Contestant 1’s voice drifts toward her. Slow and amused.

  Rebecca blinks up, watching his feet approach—this time at normal speed.

  "Last night, you looked so fierce."

  She forces herself to stand again, but fails. She’s already tired. Sluggish. And he hasn’t even taken damage. He looks untouched. Like he’s just walked down a dusty road.

  "I wish you hadn’t seduced me, honestly, " he says, resting a foot on her back, keeping her down. He tilts his head, voice dripping with mock regret. "But I’m a weak man sometimes, and you are an astonishing woman."

  He vanishes. Before she can react, something slams into her back. She crashes face-first into the dirt, grit filling her mouth, her tongue and her gums. Her brain can’t keep up. The blows register before she sees them.

  His voice reaches her from behind. “At least I hope my company was satisfying.”

  Rebecca grits her teeth. She pushes herself up for the third time and spits the grit from her mouth. With trembling knees, she stands and turns to face him. He’s wearing the most insufferable smirk.

  "What can I say?" she breathes, each word a struggle. "I didn’t have enough time to evaluate."

  His smirk curves wider. And then he’s on her. His weight crushes her down. His hands close around her throat. She can’t breathe. Her skin is already raw from her encounter with Contestant 6. The pressure is unbearable. She twists, squirms, scratches at his arms. Her ribs ache from lack of air. The world tilts sideways. Black dots swarm her vision.

  She gasps, but nothing enters her lungs. Panic coils tight, crushing her chest. His grip is like iron. Acceptance creeps in. This is it. She’s done.

  But then, something touches her fingers. Light. Small. She taps it. Feels wood. The sparrow. It must have fallen from her pocket. Her fingers trace its delicate edges. And for a moment, she thinks of Reese. The thought alone locks her in. Holds her together. Despite where she is—despite her situation—she feels close to him. Safe.

  And then instinct takes over.

  Her grip tightens around the miniature figure. With everything she has left, she drives the bird’s spread wooden wing deep into Contestant 1’s ear.

  "You bitch!"

  He howls, releasing her as he claws at his ear. Blood drips down his neck, streaking his collarbone. Rebecca slides out from under him, gasping, trying to fill her lungs with the air he stole from her. Contestant 1 rips the sparrow from his ear and throws it to the ground like trash.

  He tries to move. Tries to speed up. But he staggers. Wobbles. Loses his balance. It’s now or never.

  Rebecca lunges. She positions herself behind him and locks her arms tight around his torso. The motion flows. Her body remembers it perfectly. She’s rehearsed this a thousand times.

  She wraps her legs around his waist, locking him in place. Her left hand grips the unbuttoned part of his shirt. Her right hand reaches across, grabbing the opposite fold—and she pulls.

  Contestant 1 thrashes, struggling against the choke. But she doesn’t let go. She yanks him closer, tightening her hold. His body convulses under her grip. He scrapes at her arms, twisting, gasping—his muscles straining in one last, desperate attempt to shake her off. But she doesn’t let go. She digs in. Holds. Waits. His movements slow. Weaken. And then, after a few never-ending seconds of wondering how long she’s going to be able to hold it, he stops.

  Silence.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, can you believe it?" The male host’s voice booms over the arena. "Give a round of applause to Contestant 42—tonight’s victor!"