II

  Every time she closes her eyes, the fight replays in her mind: Contestant 51’s swift, brutal victory—her yellow teeth, her wide eyes unblinking—and the viscous substance clinging to her hair and Contestant 27’s clothes. It replays as if she's still watching. On top of it all, the show's endless theme song sounds louder tonight. There are no speakers in her room—normally, the music is distant—but tonight, she hears it right beside her ear. She tosses and turns, the sheets tangling around her ankles, until finally she sits up, pushing the covers aside with a sigh.

  She glances at the watch on her nightstand: 03:17. Most of the compound is asleep, lulled into a false sense of security. A tentative thought forms in her mind: Reese. He might be awake—he often stays up late, composing music or simply staring out at the cityscape. Maybe he can help.

  Quietly, she slips out of her room; the cool metal floor freezes her from her feet upward. She pads down the hallway, where the only sound louder than the theme song is her own heartbeat. At his door, she hesitates, her hand hovering over its surface. What if he rejects her? What if he laughs? The thought stings, but her need for comfort outweighs her pride.

  She knocks three times.

  “Who is it?”

  “It's me, Rebecca.”

  A pause.

  “Come in.”

  Taking a deep breath, she turns the doorknob. The door hisses open, revealing Reese sitting up in bed, the covers pulled around him, a datapad illuminating his face in the darkness. He looks up, surprised, his expression softening when he sees her.

  "What's wrong, Becky?"

  "I... I can't sleep," she admits in a whisper. She shifts her weight, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It’s the fight… I can’t stop picturing it."

  He studies her for a moment, his gaze distant, lost in an internal debate. "Come here," he finally says, setting the datapad aside and making room on the bed.

  She hesitates for a moment, then crosses the room and sits beside him. “I just… don’t want to be alone,” she clarifies, her voice tight. “I don’t want anything… funny to happen.”

  “Nothing funny,” he agrees.

  “I mean it, Reese. No videos, no photoshoot, no kiss.”

  A faint smile touches his lips. “Nothing funny,” he repeats, his voice gentle. He pulls the covers back, inviting her in. She slips under the warm fabric, the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease.

  The bed is slightly larger than hers, softer too. She lies on her side, facing away from him. Neither of them say anything but she finds comfort in the silence. She can feel the heat of his body radiating beside her, her feet already warming up.

  After a few minutes, she feels him shift closer. His arm drapes lightly over her waist, pulling her gently against him. She doesn’t resist; the contact is surprisingly soothing. His hand rests on her stomach, rising and falling with each breath she takes.

  "Better?" he murmurs, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

  She nods, closing her eyes. “Much better,” she whispers back. The knot in her chest finally unties, replaced by a sense of peace she hasn’t felt in a long time. The rhythmic beat of his heart against her back lulls her into a state of deep relaxation. She feels safe, protected—as if, for once, she’s not on her own. The scent of his skin, clean and masculine, fills her senses. His hand, calloused but gentle, strokes her side in slow, soothing circles.

  She drifts off to sleep, enveloped in his warmth. The horrors of the fight no longer torment her, they fade into the background. For the first time since entering Live, Rebecca sleeps soundly.

  The soft morning light filtering through the gap in the curtains paints a warm glow across Reese’s sleeping face. He looks younger, less guarded, in the quiet surrender of sleep. A strand of dark hair falls across his forehead and Rebecca resists the urge to brush it away. She has to get out. Now. Before he wakes up and she has to face the awkward aftermath of what she sternly reminds herself is purely a platonic act of comfort.

  With the same willpower that helped her quit smoking, she carefully pulls away from his embrace. He stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible. Her heart skips a beat. Has he woken? She freezes, holding her breath. Then he settles back into sleep, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

  She slips out of bed, her bare feet making no sound on the cool metal floor. As she reaches the door, she glances back at him and her chest tightens with a mixture of fondness and guilt. Guilt because she is sneaking away like a thief in the night. Fondness because… well, because she can’t deny the unexpected comfort she’s found in his arms.

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  As soon as she shuts the door behind her, she lets out a shaky breath. As she walks back to her room, too aware of the cameras watching from the walls, her internal monologue begins—sounding oddly like her first ballet teacher, a retired dancer who mentored her in childhood: Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did you have to go to his room? You have been weak, you have been childish. She has a reputation to maintain, a persona to project. The fierce, independent Rebecca doesn’t need anyone—especially not someone manipulative and fake like Reese.

  But it was so… pleasant. That thought intrudes—unwelcome but unwilling to abandon her.

  His arms around her, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the feeling of safety she hasn’t experienced in so long. It all had been so… comforting. A blush colors her cheeks, and despite her best efforts, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself firmly. It’s just sleep—just a temporary reprieve from the constant pressure, the ever-present cameras, the brutal reality of Live. Nothing more. Yet the memory of his touch—the faint scent of him in her hair and on her clothes—tells a different story, one she isn’t ready to acknowledge, a story that threatens to shatter the walls around her heart.

  Reaching her room, she slips inside. She leans against the cool metal, closing her eyes—the smile still playing on her lips. It doesn’t mean anything, she repeats—the words sounding less convincing than before.

  What once felt unthinkable now falls into the rhythm of routine. Three more nights. Three more fights. Three more stolen hours of sleep in Reese's arms. The walk down the silent hallway grows less fraught with anxiety; the hesitant knock on his door is now just a soft tap. The internal battle between caution and comfort fades with each passing night. The shared bed no longer feels like a transgression but a strange haven amid the storm. The notifications, the comments, the mocking—they’re endless, but she’s learned to ignore all that. The fights continue, their brutality escalating with a sickening predictability. Three more numbers add to the grim tally, three more empty beds in the contestants' quarters. Yet in the quiet sanctuary of Reese’s room, those horrors seem distant, muted. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the soft murmur of his breath against her hair—these are the tangible realities that anchor her, chase away the nightmares, and grant her a few precious hours of peace. Slowly, the arguments in her mind quiet down; she has learned to suppress them completely.

  This morning, however, the script flips. Rebecca wakes to a strange lightness—a missing warmth beside her. She opens her eyes to find Reese already awake, his back resting against the wall behind the bed. He looks at her and smiles, his deep brown eyes catching the morning light, filled with a tenderness that steals her breath.

  Before she can react, he leans in and his lips brush hers. It’s a chaste kiss—a sweet good morning—but it shatters the illusion of the platonic comfort they’d built. She had made it clear: “No kisses,” and he had agreed. Now the guilt she managed to suppress over the past three nights surges back, raw and crushing. What has she been doing? She allowed herself to become too open, too exposed—and that terrifies her.

  She pulls away, a blush burning her cheeks. The comfortable silence they’d cultivated now feels suffocating. The gentle morning light suddenly turns harsh, exposing the untamed emotions she’s tried so hard to keep hidden. She sits up, the thin blanket slipping away to reveal the bare skin of her shoulders.

  She puts on her clothes, she walks to the door. She stops.

  “You promised.”

  He tilts his head, studying her reaction like she’s some puzzle he’s trying to solve. Then, he exhales.

  “I thought I had earned it by now.”

  She freezes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His lips quirk—not quite a smile, but something close. “That I’ve proved it to you.”

  “Proved what?”

  “That it’s safe. That I’m safe.” His gaze darkens slightly. “That you can trust me.”

  She leaves.

  The day drags on, suffocating and endless. Rebecca drifts through it like a ghost, moving aimlessly through the bright, sterile corridors of Live. Every corner feels haunted by Reese’s presence; the memory of his lips on hers bringing back her mistakes, her weakness. She avoids him with a diligence that surprises even herself. She rushes through her meals in isolated corners and throws herself into training, her fighting turns into a mechanical choreography, yet always resulting in defeat. At the slightest sight of him, her heart races and she bolts in the opposite direction, desperate to escape.

  Just before the mandatory gathering in the common room for the fifth fight of the season, she sees it—a notification on her phone: a new upload from Reese, from six hours ago. Her thumb hovers over the icon—a strange mix of apprehension and morbid curiosity compels her to click.

  The video opens on Reese—his face is ghostly pale and drawn, carved by the harsh glare of his room. His usual mask of charm and effortless magnetism is stripped away. Instead, he looks determined, obsessed even. His eyes, which usually radiate confidence and charisma, now carry a dull, aching exhaustion, not so different from the despair she feels.

  “Good morning, my loves,” he begins—his voice rougher than usual and devoid of its melodic quality. “I’m making this video to ask… to ask for something that might seem a little strange.” He pauses—running a hand through his hair—the gesture revealing a tremor in his fingers Rebecca’s never seen before.

  “I haven’t fought yet," he continues—his gaze fixed on the camera, as if speaking directly to her. "And while I appreciate the support… the votes… I need to do this right. I need to test my strength, my chances. Shake the fear out of fighting."

  He takes a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tightening. "So I’m asking you, my fans, my supporters… don’t give me safety votes tonight. Downvote me. Let me fight. Let me feel, in flesh and blood, what it means to stand in the arena. To see if I have what it takes to… win."

  A pause. His voice lowers. "I didn’t ask you before because I thought I had a reason to stay safe. But… I’m not so sure anymore. So, can you do that for me?"

  He finishes with a thank you—the plea ringing in Rebecca’s ears long after the video cuts out.

  She stares at the blank screen as blood drains from her face. She feels betrayed—that single word repeating in her mind like a mocking parrot, squawking from the depths of her thoughts. He wants to fight; he craves it. He’s been playing the charming prince—garnering votes and sympathy—while she grapples with the very real terror of the arena. He’s used her—exploiting their shared nights and fragile truce—to build his image as the compassionate hero, all while plotting his descent into violence, indifferent to leaving her behind in that nightmare called Live. The realization ignites a fire in her chest; how can he not care?

  She hates him for risking everything for a few hours of recognition, yet deep down, in a place she rarely visits, she feels strangely relieved. She doesn’t want to see him fight, she doesn’t want to see him hurt or suffering. But being angry at him is so much simpler than being close.