Bay 11 felt like the building exhaled and stopped pretending it was a studio.

  It still had a full Core Field, still had tiered seating and camera rails and a jumbotron that tried its best. But the sponsor walls were scuffed at the corners, like they’d been moved a few times by people with actual jobs. One of the overhead displays carried a faint half-second delay when it swapped from player cams to field cam, the kind of lag you noticed only after you’d watched Bay 3 operate like a knife.

  Mason kept seeing Naomi’s frozen frame in his mind anyway.

  101.9%.

  FIELD STABILIZATION: PRIORITY ROUTE ENABLED.

  Numbers that behaved like a secret.

  Here, the broadcast overlays were basic: Charge, Core Integrity, lane lines, a small strip of decision metrics. No hidden scaffolding. No extra ribbon of telemetry tucked where only “partners” could peek. If Bay 3 was a manufactured memory, Bay 11 was just… a match people came to watch because they cared about the match.

  The crowd sounded different. Less chant, more argument. Players and spectators talking in normal voices about lines, about misplays, about whether Grappler clinch timers should be nerfed again. Vendors called out sleeve prices and lens wipes. A few kids leaned over the railing trying to get a closer look at the field shimmer, like the Core Field itself was the attraction and not the person selling it.

  Naomi guided them into a mid-tier row with the same precision she used when she set traps—two seats with a clean sightline to the Charge display and the lane markers. She didn’t take the aisle seat; she took the one that gave her a slightly wider angle on the boundary lines.

  Mason followed with a paper tray balanced on his forearm. Grease smell, cheap salt, a drink lid that didn’t quite seal. He felt ridiculous carrying food in a venue where everyone treated time like a resource bar.

  Naomi accepted her cup without looking down, fingers closing around it like it was an anchor point.

  Mason glanced at her tablet. Screen dimmed. No overlays running.

  “You’re not pulling extra data here?” The question came out softer than he expected, like he was testing whether the last bay had been real.

  Naomi kept her eyes on the field. “There isn’t extra data here. Not that we can see.”

  “Or not that they want you to see.”

  Her stylus tapped the tablet edge once. “Yes.”

  Mason took a bite and regretted it immediately, but chewing gave his jaw something to do besides tighten. He tried to focus on the competitor stations where the next match was checking in.

  Ruben Cole stood on the near side. Broad shoulders under a plain dark jacket. Rig strapped to his forearm like a tool, not a fashion piece. No handler hovering a half-step behind. No camera crew orbiting him like gravity. A referee confirmed his rig seal and waved him into position with the same efficient boredom she’d give any mid-bay match.

  Across from him, a younger player bounced lightly in place, the kind of energy that always looked like confidence until it didn’t. Nineteen, maybe. Bright gelled hair. Striker team hoodie with crisp vinyl lettering that hadn’t been heat-warped by too many washes. His rig was newer than Ruben’s but not top-tier—an upgrade you got by saving prize payouts and living on vending machine protein bars during travel.

  The overhead display flashed their names:

  RUBEN COLE — Grappler/Support

  EVAN LUTZ — Striker

  The casters in this bay weren’t the famous desk from Bay 3. Two local commentators sat in a smaller booth, voices a little rougher, excitement less rehearsed.

  “And here we go,” the left caster said. “Ruben Cole. If you’re new to the circuit, that name has history.”

  “Old-school grappler fundamentals,” the other replied. “No fireworks. Just problems.”

  Mason watched Ruben’s posture. Still. Hands low. Like he’d learned how to save energy in every part of himself except the part that mattered.

  Evan lifted his rig arm and gave the crowd a quick grin. Not polished. Human. It carried a little nerves under the cocky edge.

  The referee stepped into the lane.

  “Confirm identity and rig seal.”

  Ruben raised his arm. Minimal.

  Evan followed, adding a flick at the end like he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Best of three. Twelve Beats. Decision metrics active. No outside coaching.”

  She looked between them. “Begin.”

  ROUND 1

  Evan opened fast. The summon queue lit up: a Rank-2, then another card slotted behind it.

  “Double-queue,” Mason muttered around another bite. “He’s trying to stack tempo.”

  Naomi’s stylus hovered. No note yet. “He wants Ruben to spend Charge reacting.”

  Beat 2: Evan’s first summon manifested—Razor Hare. Rank-2 Striker. Legs built like springs, eyes too bright, posture angled forward like it expected permission to run.

  Ruben answered with Iron Grip at Rank 3.

  Iron Grip arrived heavy and centered, thick arms, plated shoulders, stance low. It didn’t pace. It didn’t perform. It occupied a lane in a way that made the glowing lines on the floor feel narrower.

  Evan didn’t wait.

  Beat 3: Razor Hare dashed center, a straight-line challenge.

  Ruben didn’t meet it head-on. Iron Grip shifted one lane, shoulder set, making itself an obstacle rather than a target.

  CONTROL TIME ticked up on the overhead.

  Evan attacked anyway.

  Razor Hare slammed into Iron Grip’s guard and rebounded. Damage numbers flickered: minimal. The kind of contact that made aggressive players feel like they were “doing something” even when they weren’t changing the math.

  Mason’s eyes wanted to glaze. After Bay 3, his brain expected a hook every Beat—lighting dips, replay angles, a “moment” engineered into the air. This was slower. It asked him to pay attention without rewarding him for it.

  Naomi seemed to sense the drift.

  “Grappler time is different time,” she said, voice low. “He’s not trying to win the Beat. He’s trying to make your Beats cost more.”

  Mason swallowed, forcing his focus back onto the lane geometry. “So the boredom is part of the weapon.”

  Her stylus tapped again. “Yes.”

  Beat 4: Evan played a Tactic—Boost Spiral. Razor Hare’s next dash would take a wider turn radius, harder to body-block. Clean early-game card, the kind that turned “I’m fast” into “you can’t predict my lane.”

  Ruben banked Charge. No trap. No counter. Just… patience.

  Beat 5: Razor Hare darted for the far lane, trying to get around Iron Grip’s shoulder and threaten Ruben’s Core line through an Opening.

  Ruben let it through.

  Mason’s head snapped up. The hit landed. Ruben’s Core Integrity dropped by two.

  Evan’s grin flashed. The crowd made the pleased sound of people watching something simple happen—damage on a scoreboard.

  Mason frowned. “He just ate that.”

  Naomi’s gaze stayed locked on Iron Grip, not the numbers. “He bought position.”

  Mason tracked the lanes. Iron Grip had shifted earlier, not to stop the rush entirely, but to angle the exchange. Evan was now on the far lane near the boundary, momentum spent, approach options reduced.

  Beat 6: Ruben issued Clinch.

  Iron Grip moved like a door closing. One heavy arm hooked Razor Hare at the midsection and dragged it chest-to-chest, locking it in place.

  CLINCH ESTABLISHED — 2 BEATS

  Evan’s rig hand tightened. He tried an escape dash command.

  Razor Hare twitched. It didn’t go anywhere.

  The clinch wasn’t just “hold.” It was positional theft. Razor Hare’s speed didn’t matter when its hips were pinned and its legs couldn’t get traction.

  Mason leaned forward, half the tray forgotten in his lap.

  Beat 7: Ruben played a low-cost terrain—Ringline Chalk. A thin circle of pale marking flared under Iron Grip’s stance. Clinch stability increased. Knockback reduced. The field itself started helping the hold.

  “He waited,” Naomi murmured. “Now he spends.”

  Evan countered with Slip Blade, a tactic meant to punish clinch holds by forcing a release through damage conversion.

  Sparks flickered against Iron Grip’s armor where the cut-line resolved.

  Ruben didn’t flinch at his station.

  Beat 8: Throw.

  Iron Grip rotated, using the clinch as a hinge, and slammed Razor Hare down at an angle that shoved it toward the boundary line without forcing auto-recall. It kept the creature on the field while stripping it of good lanes.

  A status icon appeared over Razor Hare.

  OFF-BALANCE

  Beat 9: Evan’s queued summon arrived—Blitz Fang. Rank-2 Striker. Same creature Kellen used like a logo, but here it looked less like branding and more like a sharpened tool.

  Because the rules only allowed one active summon, Evan had to choose.

  He recalled Razor Hare—compromised, debuffed—and kept Blitz Fang.

  Ruben watched the recall without chasing. More Charge banked. Calm as if the match wasn’t happening faster than most people’s heart rate.

  Beat 10: Blitz Fang attacked.

  This hit was real. Iron Grip’s DEF chunked down; a sliver of overflow shaved Ruben’s Core by one. The crowd reacted again, relieved to see “action.”

  Ruben’s answer wasn’t an immediate swing.

  Beat 11: Iron Grip repositioned into center, reclaiming the lane Evan wanted and forcing Blitz Fang to either contest space or spend Charge going around.

  Beat 12: Ruben reached for another Clinch.

  Evan anticipated it and fired a Backstep Sigil, a short dash designed to break clinch range at the moment of contact.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Blitz Fang slid back in a clean line, and Iron Grip’s arm closed on empty air.

  The crowd made a satisfied noise—Veteran finally whiffed.

  Mason started to catalog it as a mistake, a rare opening.

  Naomi’s stylus stopped moving. “He tracked the Backstep.”

  Mason turned slightly. “You’re telling me he missed because he knew the card was there?”

  Her eyes didn’t leave the field. “He watched Evan’s rig hand. The hesitation before the counter. Evan wanted to spend it.”

  Mason’s gaze flicked to the Charge display. Ruben sat high—he’d banked for multiple Beats. Evan had just spent a card and Charge to avoid a clinch that hadn’t been stable yet. Ruben had spent only a command.

  Decision time.

  The referee’s tablet chimed as the round ended. Metrics rolled.

  DAMAGE DEALT — Evan +3

  CONTROL TIME — Ruben +7

  STYLE — Evan +1.1

  RESOURCE EFFICIENCY — Ruben +2.7

  The decision leaned like a verdict.

  “Round one,” the referee announced, “Cole.”

  Evan’s head snapped up. For a flicker, disbelief showed on his face before he smoothed it into a laugh that sounded a little too loud.

  The casters filled the gap.

  “That’s Grappler math,” one said. “You can land bigger hits and still lose if you’re spending wrong.”

  Mason sat back, uneasy admiration in his chest. “That’s brutal.”

  Naomi’s gaze narrowed. “It’s suffocation. He turns your speed into panic.”

  Between rounds, Evan talked to himself at his station, jaw working like he was chewing regret. Ruben stayed still, gaze down at the field like he was looking through it.

  No replay package. No slow-motion glamour. Just a quick stat recap and a sponsor logo that looked slightly pixelated at the edges.

  Mason realized he was more nervous than if Ruben had been throwing constant haymakers. This style didn’t show you where the knife was. It just made you feel it when you moved the wrong way.

  ROUND 2

  Evan adjusted his opener. He swapped into a Rank-3 Striker—Feral Lance—built for piercing high-DEF targets with a one-Beat armor crack. Smart on paper. The kind of adaptation that got praised in postgame breakdown videos.

  Ruben opened Iron Grip again.

  Beat 3: Evan forced the exchange early. Feral Lance came in with a straight-line thrust that flashed a status icon on contact.

  ARMOR FRACTURE

  Iron Grip’s DEF dropped harder than before. Mason felt his shoulders tighten.

  “That’s the answer,” he murmured.

  Naomi’s stylus finally scratched a short note. “Partial answer.”

  Beat 4: Evan tried to cash it. A follow-up strike line—clean, fast—meant to turn the fracture into real damage before Ruben could reset.

  Ruben revealed his first trap.

  The field beneath Feral Lance flickered—thin glyphs like hooked lines—and the Striker’s forward motion stuttered as if the lane itself had decided it no longer supported that trajectory.

  TRAP REVEALED: ANCHOR BITE

  And then something happened that had nothing to do with overlays.

  Before the trap fully resolved—before the glyphs even finished stitching their hook-shapes into the floor shimmer—Feral Lance’s head turned down. Not toward Ruben, not toward Iron Grip.

  Toward the glyphs.

  Its eyes widened.

  It jerked as if it understood what had grabbed it.

  Mason’s hands went cold around his drink cup. His stomach dropped, fast and sour. The motion was too early to be “feedback.” Too specific to be pre-scripted in a way that matched the exact trap shape it hadn’t seen before.

  Naomi’s stylus hit the tablet glass twice, rapid, the kind of reflex note-taking that looked more like fear than curiosity. Her jaw tightened, and she didn’t blink for two Beats.

  Mason leaned toward her without looking away from the field. “You saw that.”

  A small nod. Nothing else. As if speaking would turn it into a confession.

  Beat 5: Ruben issued Clinch.

  Iron Grip surged into the stutter window and locked onto Feral Lance’s torso, pinning its arms.

  CLINCH ESTABLISHED — 2 BEATS

  Evan slammed a counter tactic—Shatter Pulse—aimed to disrupt grapples with a burst of force.

  The pulse hit. Iron Grip rocked back half a step.

  It didn’t release.

  Ruben had positioned them near the boundary line where knockback angles got awkward. A shove that would normally create breathing room risked forcing Feral Lance out for auto-recall at a bad time. Evan hesitated, caught between two bad options. Ruben didn’t give him a third.

  Beat 6: Ruben played Compression Wrap, reinforcing Iron Grip’s clinch arms and converting a portion of incoming damage into Control Time.

  The casters sounded almost sympathetic.

  “That’s the nightmare. He’s not just holding you—he’s scoring while he does it.”

  Beat 7: Throw.

  Iron Grip rotated and slammed Feral Lance into the lane barrier. The boundary shimmer flared, the Core Field absorbing impact. The sound that came through the bay’s speakers was clean and contained.

  Feral Lance’s body still jolted like it hurt.

  Overflow damage bled through to Evan’s Core Integrity. Not a lot, but enough to matter. Enough to make Evan’s mouth tighten.

  And then Ruben changed the pace.

  Beat 8: Recall.

  Iron Grip dissolved into recall shimmer. Ruben’s side of the field emptied for the one-Beat gap.

  Evan blinked, thrown off. He’d been bracing for another clinch chain, another slow squeeze. Now there was space, and space was a problem when you didn’t know what was coming.

  Naomi’s lips parted slightly—her version of surprise.

  “He’s ending it,” she murmured.

  Beat 9: Ruben summoned Submission Titan.

  Rank-5. Expensive. Heavy. The kind of creature most local bays never saw because building around it demanded a deck—and a budget—that could sustain it.

  Submission Titan manifested like a wall arriving. Massive frame. Thick hands wrapped in straps. Head lowered under horn-like plating. Its presence changed the bay’s noise. People leaned in, not because it was pretty, but because it was power you could feel in your ribs.

  Evan’s eyes widened.

  He went for the line that made sense: race the slow monster before it could lock you.

  Beat 10: Evan switched—recalled Feral Lance and brought out Blitz Fang again, hoping speed would let him slip past the Titan before the clinch could establish.

  Beat 11: Blitz Fang dashed toward the Core line.

  Ruben didn’t chase. Submission Titan moved into center and lowered its stance, claiming the lane like a bouncer who didn’t need to raise his voice.

  Beat 12: Clinch.

  The Titan’s arm shot out and caught Blitz Fang mid-lane.

  CLINCH ESTABLISHED — 3 BEATS

  The crowd made the kind of noise people make when they watch a door lock.

  Evan tried to break it. Escape line, counter pulse, anything left. The Titan didn’t budge.

  The round ended with the clinch still active, but the status didn’t carry between rounds in official play. It just meant Evan would start the next round down Charge, down tempo, and with his best line already telegraphed.

  There wasn’t going to be a next round.

  The referee’s tablet chimed. She checked the match state—Evan’s Core Integrity already low enough from earlier overflow, Ruben’s board position dominant, Evan’s resources drained.

  “Round two,” the referee announced. “Cole. Match: Cole, two rounds to zero.”

  Ruben released his command stance and recalled Submission Titan. The massive creature dissolved into shimmer as if it had never been there. Ruben didn’t raise his rig arm. Didn’t celebrate. He crossed to mid-field and offered a handshake.

  Evan took it, jaw tight. The grin from the beginning of the match didn’t return.

  He left the lane without looking at the crowd.

  Ruben collected his deck case and moved off with the same quiet economy he’d played with.

  “That’s why they call him the Veteran,” one caster said. “He doesn’t win flashy. He wins inevitable.”

  Mason sat back and realized his shoulders had been tense for most of the match. His fingers flexed around his drink cup until the lid complained.

  Naomi’s tablet screen stayed dim. She didn’t try to pull anything extra. There was nothing to steal in Bay 11 except what you saw with your own eyes.

  Mason stared at the field where Submission Titan had stood, then at the faint glow of Anchor Bite’s residue fading from the lane.

  “That reaction,” he said quietly. “It looked like…”

  Naomi didn’t answer at first. She slid the glossy pamphlet she’d pocketed earlier from her jacket and opened it one-handed, scanning a block of corporate text without changing expression.

  “Bio-neural echo constructs,” she read under her breath, each word clipped. “Reactive behavior patterns are simulated for enhanced viewer immersion.”

  Mason’s throat tightened. “Simulated.”

  She folded the pamphlet with precise movements and returned it to her pocket. “That’s the word they use.”

  Mason replayed Feral Lance’s eyes widening at the glyphs it shouldn’t have understood.

  He tried to imagine a “simulation” anticipating a trap before it fully resolved.

  It didn’t fit.

  Scene 2 — The Hallway Tip

  They left Bay 11 with the crowd, funneling into a corridor where tournament life kept going whether you were ready or not.

  Vendor booths lined one side: deck sleeves, lens cleaners, cheap knockoff hoodies that tried to mimic pro merch without paying for permission. The other side was a wall of hydration stations and vending machines. Players clustered around them with the urgency of people who treated water like a mechanic.

  Mason spotted Ruben near a dispenser, refilling a plain bottle. Sweat darkened the collar of his jacket. Up close, he looked less like a legend and more like a guy who’d finished a shift and was heading straight to another one.

  Mason slowed. He didn’t know whether approaching was brave or pathetic.

  Naomi hung back half a step, tablet held close. Her eyes moved over the corridor the way she read a board state—angles, exits, who was watching.

  Ruben noticed Mason before Mason decided what to do. His gaze flicked to Mason’s badge and then to his rig arm. Recognition settled in, not surprise—more like filing a familiar name into place.

  “Mason Carver.”

  Mason’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

  Ruben capped his bottle and gave a single nod. It felt like he was acknowledging a solid play rather than greeting a person.

  “Saw you got through round one,” Ruben added, tone neutral.

  Mason blinked. “You watched my match?”

  Ruben’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “My bay assignment was delayed. Yours was close.”

  Naomi’s gaze flicked to Ruben’s rig casing—older model, buffed clean, scarred in places—then away again, polite distance.

  Mason shifted his grip on his rig case strap. He wanted to ask a real question, something that didn’t sound like fandom. Instead his mouth went straight for the thing that had been bothering him.

  “That clinch whiff,” Mason said. “You missed on purpose.”

  Ruben took a slow drink, then lowered the bottle. His eyes stayed on Mason, steady.

  “You think it was on purpose.”

  Mason held the stare. “It was.”

  Ruben’s gaze slid briefly past Mason, scanning the corridor the way someone did when checking exits was a habit. Then his focus returned.

  “Strikers hate wasted motion,” Ruben said. “They feel it like disrespect. So they overpay to avoid it.”

  Mason nodded slowly. “You baited the Backstep.”

  Ruben tipped his head—minimal confirmation. “He spent a card to escape air. Next Beat, he didn’t have it when the clinch was real.”

  Naomi’s stylus made a tiny note against her tablet, quick and quiet.

  Mason’s next question came out sharper than he meant. “How do you keep track of all that without freaking out.”

  Ruben’s gaze held on him. “You stop needing every Beat to be a win.”

  Mason’s lips parted, then closed. The line landed too close to his own habits—how he chased tempo not just for damage, but for relief. How he tried to make each Beat prove he belonged.

  Ruben shifted his bottle to one hand and tapped his own rig casing near the Charge indicator.

  “Charge discipline,” Ruben continued. “Don’t spend to feel safe. Spend to change the math.”

  Mason frowned. “That’s…”

  Ruben lifted two fingers slightly—not a scold, just a pause.

  “Example,” Ruben said. “Against clinch decks, you don’t play your escape card the first time you’re threatened. You play it the first time the hold is stable.”

  Naomi’s eyes narrowed, interest cutting through her guarded posture.

  Mason followed the idea. “Stable meaning terrain is down. Trap’s set. Right lane.”

  Ruben nodded once. “If you throw your escape early, you buy one Beat. If you throw it when the hold is real, you steal two. Maybe three.”

  Mason’s mind started building scenarios immediately—how his hybrid tools could be held instead of fired, how his traps could interrupt setup points instead of trying to brute-force stops. He realized he was already planning the rematch and it made his chest feel tight with want.

  Ruben watched him do it. The Veteran’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes tightened—caution, maybe, as if he’d seen that hunger before and didn’t like where it led.

  “Careful,” Ruben warned.

  Mason blinked. “About what.”

  Ruben’s voice stayed low. “Playing too hungry.”

  The word hit because it was accurate. Because Mason had been living inside it since the first day he realized his family’s bills had numbers attached.

  Ruben’s gaze slid briefly to Naomi’s tablet and then back to Mason. “When you need a win to mean something outside the match, you start ignoring what the match is telling you.”

  Mason’s fingers tightened around the strap. “Like what.”

  Ruben didn’t answer immediately. He capped the bottle with measured movements, buying himself a moment to decide how much truth he could afford.

  “Like when the system acts wrong,” Ruben said. “When your rig feels off. When a Beat hits harder than it should.”

  Naomi’s posture stiffened. The tablet pressed tighter against her ribs.

  Mason’s stomach tightened in response. “You’ve noticed that.”

  “I notice a lot.”

  The corridor noise flowed around them—laughter from players comparing bad beats, a vendor pitching a bundle deal, a distant cheer from another bay when someone landed a flashy finisher. None of it touched the small pocket of warning Ruben had opened.

  Ruben lowered his voice another notch. “If you see something you can’t explain, don’t convince yourself it’s fine because you need the tournament to stay real.”

  Mason stared at him. “That’s not exactly encouraging.”

  Ruben’s mouth twitched again, dry humor without warmth. “I’m not a coach. I’m a guy who came back because I still had something to prove.”

  Naomi’s voice cut in for the first time, calm with an edge. “And because you’re watching for something.”

  Ruben looked at her fully now. His gaze held on her AR lenses, then dropped to the tablet tucked under her arm.

  “You’re the note-taker,” Ruben said.

  Naomi didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

  “Keep your notes.” Ruben’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Just be careful who gets to read them.”

  Naomi’s grip tightened, then loosened with controlled effort. “I’m aware.”

  Ruben nodded once, then shifted his stance as if the conversation needed to end before it grew teeth.

  He looked back to Mason. “You’ve got a match coming.”

  Mason’s schedule pinged in his head. “Yeah. In about an hour.”

  Ruben started to move past them, then paused.

  “One more thing.”

  Mason’s attention snapped up.

  Ruben’s gaze held steady. “Don’t try to play like Kellen.”

  Heat climbed behind Mason’s ears. “I’m not—”

  Ruben lifted a hand slightly, stopping the reflex without accusing him.

  “I saw you watching,” Ruben said. “Everyone watches. But highlight pace isn’t the only pace that wins. You’ve got instincts. Put a leash on them. Don’t kill them.”

  Mason held that, feeling both seen and exposed in a way he wasn’t used to from strangers.

  Ruben turned to go.

  Naomi shifted her tablet higher against her chest, like she was choosing her words with care. “Your match was clean.”

  Ruben didn’t stop, but his head tipped a fraction in acknowledgment before he disappeared into the corridor flow.

  Mason stood there for a Beat, letting the venue noise press back in once Ruben was gone. It felt too bright, too normal for what had just been implied.

  Naomi drifted closer until her shoulder was near his, not touching. A quiet boundary marker.

  “You’re thinking about the flinch,” she said.

  Mason kept his eyes on the direction Ruben had gone. “Yeah.”

  She paused, then added—softer by a degree, not warm but less sharp—“We can review his footage later. Find the exact Beat where it happened. If it happened.”

  Mason turned toward her. “That’s your idea of comfort.”

  A tiny shift in her mouth. Almost amusement. “It’s a plan.”

  Mason exhaled. “Okay. Later.”

  Naomi’s gaze lifted to the overhead hall display, scanning bracket times and bay assignments. “We’ll need a quieter place than this.”

  “Café near the venue?” Mason asked, and the words came out too easy—like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

  Naomi nodded once. “After your match.”

  Mason adjusted his rig case strap and started moving with her through the corridor traffic. His mind split between the next opponent and the image of Feral Lance staring down at the trap glyphs like it recognized a threat.

  He caught himself thinking about the café in a way that wasn’t strictly strategic.

  It sounded like a date if you squinted, and that thought made his chest feel tight in a different direction—something hopeful and inconvenient.

  Naomi didn’t look at him as they walked, but her presence stayed close enough that he didn’t feel like he was carrying the weirdness alone.

  Ruben’s warning stayed lodged behind Mason’s teeth:

  Playing too hungry makes you ignore what the match is telling you.

  Mason didn’t like how true it felt.

  He liked even less that the match might be trying to tell him something he wasn’t ready to hear.