III

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 allocated a forty-five-minute slot in the training facility booths, where they 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 is a blur of motion and metallic limbs, its movements systematic and precise—mirroring her recommended fighting style. She moves with fluid grace, masking her lack of true understanding. Her enhanced muscles turn the fight into a display of instinct, tricks, and luck. The battle is fierce—an unrehearsed dance of controlled aggression and pinpoint strikes.

Rebecca utilizes her newfound flexibility and elasticity to evade the robot's powerful blows, who strikes with swift, studied precision. Yet despite her best efforts, the sparring match ends in a decisive victory for the AI combat robot, forcing her to acknowledge how far she still has to go. Just as she catches her breath, Reese appears out of nowhere, a smirk on his face—as if he had been watching her every move.

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

“You’ve got potential,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost casual yet carrying an invisible pressure.

He stretches out his hand, and with his help, Rebecca stands up, feeling a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. Discomfort overshadowed by a surprising warmth—and something akin to… appreciation? The thought is unwelcome. Utterly unwelcome.

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

A rush of irritation crashes over her. The strategy she employed during the sparring match now feels compromised—Reese has witnessed her fighting style, her strengths and weaknesses laid bare. The unfairness of it all stings. The mere thought of facing him in a real fight, stripped of the element of surprise, seeps into her bones and a cold dread settles in her stomach.

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 the sense of hopelessness that threatens to consume her.

“What’s your ability?” Rebecca demands.

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

The metallic trace of blood soon fills the training booth. She tastes it on the back of her tongue, the smell wiping out the sterile scent of the facility. Rebecca stares at the crimson line on Reese’s forearm, watching as it begins to knit itself closed, leaving behind only a faint pink scar. Horror distorts her features. Did she just witness a display of near-invulnerability? His casual demeanor only infuriates her further.

“You're invincible,” she breathes, the words bitter with despair. This knowledge shifts the menacing balance of power dramatically. Her enhanced elasticity, once a substantial advantage, now feels insignificant against his apparent immortality.

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, a playful glint in his eyes, 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. This changes everything. Their potential alliance—or lack thereof—demands reassessment. But for now, she needs space, time to recalibrate her approach.