IV

  Rebecca goes to sleep alone that night and the silence of her room suffocates her. As usual, she tries to shut her eyes and get some sleep but every time, her eyelids snap open. She tosses and turns in the narrow bed; her mattress feeling harder than ever. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks. 2:30 AM. A soft knock startles her.

  “Rebecca, it’s me. Open up,” Reese’s whispered voice—barely audible through the door—leaves her petrified. Her heart hammers against her ribs, she even stops breathing without realizing it. She wants to open the door, to let him in, to seek solace in his presence, but her body refuses to obey. Her legs feel heavy—sewn to the bed.

  Fear—not of him but of her own turbulent emotions—paralyzes her. The confusion and conflicting desires that war within her hold her captive. She stays silent, her breath caught in her throat—hoping he will understand, hoping he won’t go away yet terrified of what will happen if he stays. After a long, agonizing silence, his footsteps retreat.

  She curls up on her side, her knees close to her chest to cope with the cold, the thin blanket pulled tight around her. Finally, right before the first rays of dawn begin to filter through the sliding door, she drifts into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

  She bolts upright in bed, her heart pounding, a cold sweat bathing her skin. Dawn paints the sterile decorations a pale grey, and the silence in the room feels deafening and oppressive. She knows she had a nightmare, but she can only recollect pieces of it. Like the image of Reese lying broken and defeated in the arena. The dream is so vivid, so real, that a primal fear drives her from the confines of her room. She has to see him; she has let him know she cares he’s alright.

  She knocks softly, but there's no answer. She strikes again, this time with more urgency. Nothing. A momentary burst of irritation, quickly overtaken by a sharp pang of hurt, pricks her. He is being childish, punishing her for having doubts. Typical Reese—always playing games, always strategizing with his actions. Just as she is about to turn away, the door swings open, and Reese steps out.

  He’s wearing pajama bottoms but nothing on his torso, and judging by the look of it, nothing under his pants either; his hair is tousled and his eyes sleepy. But it isn’t his appearance that steals her breath. It’s the figure emerging from the room behind him—a girl with tangled hair, a ruffled t-shirt, and a sleepy smile playing on her lips. It takes a moment for Rebecca to recognize her without the uniform, but eventually, she does. She’s Contestant 22—the biologist. The scene—so mundane, so ordinary—lands like a kick to the stomach.

  Rebecca stands frozen, her mind spinning as she struggles to process the scene before her. That fragile hope for something real between her and Reese—hidden beneath layers of pretense—crumbles into nothing. He didn’t seek her out last night because he craved her company; he didn’t care who was by his side—he found what he was looking for, with someone else.

  A sickening nausea rises from deep within her. She wants to scream, to unleash her fury, to demand answers, but the words catch in her throat, choked by the crushing oppression in her chest.

  Shame—hot and stinging—floods her cheeks. She’s allowed herself to be vulnerable again. She’s seen fleeting moments of real emotion in his eyes, heard it in the rough timbre of his voice, felt it in those rare, shared intimacies. Was it all a lie? Just another one of his manipulative tactics to keep her trapped in his web of deceit?

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  The girl, oblivious to the silent war raging inside of Rebecca’s mind, brushes past her with a mumbled apology. Reese stares back at her, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing as he takes in her stricken expression. He opens his mouth to speak, but Rebecca turns and flees, the image of him with another woman—mocking her own foolish hope, is all she can take from him that morning.

  The hallway seems to have stretched, the path to her room becomes too long and her legs too weak. She hasn't even reached the first corner of the corridor when a hand—firm and warm—clamps around her wrist. She doesn't need to turn to know it is Reese. His grip, though not painful, holds an undeniable strength—preventing her escape. He doesn’t speak or offer an explanation, But the silence does more damage than any excuse he could have made. She stands there, her back to him, her breath catching in her throat, until she finally turns and faces him.

  She has to say something—anything—to break the suffocating silence. "I was looking for my charger," she blurts out, then she makes a pause. She gives him a chance to explain himself, to acknowledge what he's done. Nothing. "I lost it," she continues, holding back the tears with everything she's got, "but I guess I’ll keep looking in my room. It must be there somewhere." The lie tastes like ash in her mouth. Of course, he says nothing—there’s nothing to say. For a moment, she forgets, but his silence is enough of an answer. They aren’t together. They are nothing.

  It was her decision after all. She had been the one to draw the line—to insist on maintaining the facade of an alliance, nothing more. And yet, the sight of him with another woman—the sole idea of him, wrapping his arms around someone other than her—ignites a firestorm of emotions she can’t comprehend.

  She wants to scream, to lash out—to demand answers. Why has he sought comfort in another’s arms while she’s been tormented by nightmares of his death? Why has he pursued her—offered glimpses of tenderness and empathy—only to discard her so easily?

  The questions knot painfully in her throat. She can’t ask him. The embarrassment is too sharp, the hypocrisy too loud. And the fear… the dread of his answer.

  She can’t bear it.

  At a certain point, when he tugs lightly on her wrist, testing the strength of his hold, she believes he's finally going to speak. He doesn't release her; but he doesn't say anything either. And all she wants is to disappear. Every fiber of her being screams for an escape, for the seclusion of her room, where she can finally unleash the torrent of emotions trapped inside her chest. But his hand remains firm—and she finally gets it. He's not looking for the right words to say to her, he's not at a loss of words due to his guilt and shame, his silence is an ultimatum for acknowledgement, for a confrontation she isn't sure she is ready to face. He wants to hear what she has to say.

  Rebecca’s heart hammers against her ribs, almost as dramatically as it did when Reese was in the arena. Her mind races, desperately searching for an escape route, a way to deflect the hurt and confusion. She just can't take his piercing eyes anymore. “I should go get dressed,” she says.

  Maybe it's new, maybe he always had that power, but right now, he looks at her as if he could see right through her. She feels exposed and vulnerable. If she stays there, she won't be able to hold it anymore. The tears, the demand for answers to questions she knows she has no right to ask, all of it will come out like burning lava. With the last bit of strength left in her, she forces her feelings to the bottom of her heart and locks them there. With a feigned indifference that surprises even herself, she asks, “Can I go now?”

  The hallway feels claustrophobic. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and spice—transports her to those perfect nights she spent under his embrace. If she had known they would be so few, she would have tried to immortalize every second. Now it's too late. Now they're tainted by the image of him with someone else.

  Finally, Reese releases his grip and lets her go.